The city breathes in reverse, a pulse returning to its core. The streets straighten out, the asphalt unspools stony memories. Shopfronts shut themselves only to reopen with hands of gentle longing. Each timepiece resets its hands upon the time that knows how to cease. And dreams begin to sprout from a time without haste. In a park of lights, the leaves count moments like slow machinery. The windows turn to mouths whispering brand-new thoughts. The city, breathing softly, composes a tomorrow that does not race.