Lenora

Registered hustle® at 2am

There’s music in the shop’s static. Shelves bend under the weight of unsold stories. Dozens of barcodes, none scanned. “Price reduced?” reads a tiny sticker. The register sings on occasion.

The elevator stalls between floors. A strip of tape dangles from the panel—push here, open later. Each button, a guess at passage. “Where do these nights lead?” Flicker, flicker, then lift. Grey pigeons circle, untidy and watchful. City squares map out with coins and stains. Coffee cools slow in a chipped cup; across from you, someone reconsiders the day. Only the breeze answers. The clock keeps ticking.

A storefront empty except for mirrors. Reflections scatter: hats, faces, stray thoughts. The bell above the door waits for purpose. “What next?” asks a voice from the street. Nobody looks up.

A lock clicks: another threshold crossed. Shadows collapse inward as someone pulls the blinds. “All clear?” — but nobody checks twice. The hallway stretches and settles. Silence follows, soft-edged.

Last night’s cab fare still in pocket. The subway map is folded, edges torn by habit. Traffic hums a lullaby: sleep now, or wait for dawn? Dreams wander with receipts and old phone numbers. The engine pauses. Shrubs push through concrete, turning nothing into green. Park benches catalog stories in gouged initials. “Will you remember this corner?” someone scribbles under a seat. Dogs bark at passing trains. No answers, but plenty of questions. The bakery opens with the scent of hope and flour. Coins for a croissant, bills for warmth. A smile across the counter — fleeting, not forgetting. Newsprint smudges fingers. The past lingers as crumbs.