The city emits a low, mechanical hum as dusk casts shades of violet across the skyline. Streetlamps flicker to life, their glow dancing on the wet pavement, transforming it into a reflective canvas of the twilight sky. In the distance, you can hear a train howling — a sound that resonates deep into the bones of the block. You pull your sketchbook closer, its corners softened from countless journeys. The industrial district fills the air with a blend of rust, diesel, and fresh rain. The buildings seem to lean in, like old men reminiscing about battles fought long ago.

You hadn’t planned to stop. It's a habit, almost a need: to leave a mark and then keep moving. Yet this wall has a magnetic pull that draws you back every night.

The mural stretches across the factory's side, vibrant yet haunting, like a memory painted in color. It’s more than just paint — it’s a tapestry of grief and rebellion sprawled across the brick. Neon blues curl into bruised purples, while a jagged streak of scarlet cuts through the scene like an open wound. The central figure appears to mouth a silent scream that resonates with the city's heartbeat. In one corner, a twisting symbol — a soundwave caught mid-cry — tugs at your thoughts, stirring something inside you.

You settle on the curb, pencil in hand, but everything you draw feels small and inadequate beside the mural's grandeur.

Suddenly, footsteps approach. You hear the soft clink of a zipper and the faint hum of music leaking from headphones. Before you fully look up, he stands before you — the mural's shadow transformed into a person. Paint smudges his jaw and hand, and fret marks line his fingers. Framed by the warm light of the lamppost, his guitar hangs across his back, a solemn presence.

“Do you like it?” he asks, his voice low and curious. There’s no bravado in him, just a quiet invitation to be honest. His ice-blue eyes scan your sketchbook and then your face, as if taking in how the city has left its mark on you. the city has left its mark on you.