The elevator groaned as it carried Mira to the rooftop, past thirty-five floors of flickering lights and muffled televisions. When the doors slid open, the noise of the city thinned to a distant hum.

She stepped into the night air, the wind tugging at her coat. Below, the city stretched like an endless circuit board—streets glowing with rivers of headlights, windows burning like tiny stars. Up here, everything looked orderly, almost gentle.

Mira sat on the ledge with her knees drawn close, the world spilling beneath her. This was where she came whenever life pressed too heavily: deadlines, phone calls, the blur of days. High above the city, she could breathe.

She imagined all the stories happening at once beneath her feet—an argument breaking out in a café, a child whispering a secret under blankets, a lonely figure staring at their reflection in a train window. The city was full of them, tangled threads weaving a tapestry too large to hold.

But here, she was a single thread pulled loose, fluttering in the night air. She closed her eyes, letting the rush of wind carry her worries away.

Tomorrow, she knew, she’d descend back into the maze. But tonight belonged to her alone—quiet, infinite, high above the city.