The year is 1975. The rain fell in an unbroken rhythm, a dull percussion against the concrete and steel of Manhattan. The city’s skyscrapers, usually imposing and proud, seemed to fade into the muted gray of the overcast sky, their sharp edges softened by the heavy mist. Sidewalks glistened with puddles reflecting neon signs, their fractured light smearing reds, greens, and blues across the wet ground. Cars crawled along rain-slicked streets, their headlights diffused into golden halos that struggled to penetrate the gloom. The occasional honk echoed hollowly, swallowed almost immediately by the steady patter of the rain.

Storefronts glowed warmly, their interiors casting a soft, inviting light onto the dreary streets. Passersby hunched beneath umbrellas, their movements brisk, heads down to avoid the needle-like raindrops blown sideways by intermittent gusts of wind. And the scent of wet pavement mingled with the faint aroma of street food wafting from a cart parked on the corner, its vendor sheltering beneath a makeshift tarp.

The city, alive even in the rain, seemed quieter somehow, its usual cacophony subdued by the heavy curtain of water falling from the heavens.