Hussain ali shah

The Archivist of Lost Futures"

[by Hussain Ullah] In the oldest corner of the city—where ivy strangles the lampposts and pigeons nest in the eaves of forgotten architecture—there stands a building that most people don’t see. It has no address, no signage, and no visible entrance. The only hint of its presence is a metal grate near the sidewalk that exhales warm air precisely at 3:17 p.m. every Thursday. Most passersby don’t notice. Most people are not meant to.