Shayan Afzal

The man in the yellow coat coughed into his elbow, though no one asked him to. He stood by the traffic light that never turned green. Around him, the crowd spilled like water from a cracked pipe—limbs brushing limbs, mouths muttering indistinct syllables that sounded like broken glass.

Above, the sky was not gray, but something worse: a shade without name, thick with the sighs of buildings too tired to breathe. Children pointed upward but no one followed their fingers. Birds, once loud and cocky, now looked confused mid-flight, landing on rooftops and promptly forgetting why.

A woman sat on the curb counting invisible coins, placing each one in her palm, nodding after every tenth. Her shopping bags were empty. Across from her, a billboard advertised a bottled version of air—“Simulated Freshness Inside.” No one laughed. The laughter had been confiscated for safety reasons.

Once, there had been light here. It’s true. The fountains ran. A boy with red sneakers used to run laps around the square and people cheered. There were less of them then. Or maybe they were smaller. Or maybe they didn’t make so much noise just by existing.

He walked further down, past a building where someone had written: Do not mistake the fog for mercy. Beneath it, a man tried to sell umbrellas that did nothing against the dust. People bought them anyway.

By evening, he reached a window that still had curtains. He stared at his own reflection, blurred by grime. A face, melting into the glass, neither inside nor out.

He didn’t recognize it.