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long way home

Rain falls in fine needles that stitch the night to my coat as I walk the long way home through a cold, empty city. Breath turns to small clouds, and the umbrella drums a private tempo above me. Puddles copy neon signs, break them under my steps, and send flickers across the wet asphalt. Crosswalk signals blink like tired stars; buses exhale at the curb; café windows bloom with fog and borrowed warmth. Tires hiss past, a siren threads the roundabout. The chill sharpens the distance but steadies my focus—footfall, rain, light. Streetlamps wear halos, gutters speak, and the city breathes damp syllables. I pass doorways where laughter is a warm blur, but I keep to the rain, measuring time in crossings and corners, following distant trains. Each block repeats a chorus: hush after splash, click of the signal, umbrella tapping time. I walk until the cold names me awake and the ache becomes companion, until neon dissolves into river‑light and the road gathers me toward a patient, longer home.