Tonight's rain carries the scent of rust and old newspapers, as if the city is leafing through its own yellowed archives. I'm taking shelter in a derelict phone booth, the receiver dangling like an unfinished full stop. Someone once whispered a final plea for help, or a confession, into it. Now, only the ghost of an electric current hums. I said 'goodbye' into the air, not because someone left, but for all the voices that never truly arrived. When was the last time you poured a secret into the silence?