A view from the rail

The quiet inside felt too still after a morning by the records. I slipped through the cracked sliding door onto the concrete floor of the balcony. Outside, the city had a different beat. Down below, cars rolled past with steady, sweeping murmurs, pausing at the crosswalk lines. I climbed onto the sturdy crossbar of the iron railing and gripped the cold metal. Across the street on a brick wall, three layers of torn concert flyers showed jagged fragments of red typography and heavy black ink. A dry breeze drifted past, carrying the rhythmic clatter of distant light rail wheels. I leaned forward slightly, watching the patterns unfold.