Until The City Cries

Chloe climbed the stairs to the roof as the sky leaned into orange. Ten stories lifted her above the crush of the Village, and for a moment the city shaped itself like a promise. Glass towers drank the sun until their edges dripped gold. The river spread its long arm in light. Bridges wrote their names with steel and cables. From this height, nothing looked bruised.

She dropped her bag by the hatch and shook out a cigarette. Smoke curled, then caught the breeze and stitched itself through the fading light. She liked that it rose the same way her drone would. One body dissolving, another machine ascending. Both temporary. She drew once, let it settle, and balanced the camera strap across her neck.

The drone lifted with the sound of a moth amplified. Chloe steered it upward, past the water towers and laundry lines, past the gravel squares that people rarely noticed. Higher it climbed until the city presented itself like a painting for sale. She framed the sweep and tapped for stills. Every photo carried perfection because distance behaved. Up here, everything answered her, no questions asked. She would send the sequence to a client who asked for wide views, then hope the invoice arrived on time.

She kept the drone hovering and lowered her eyes to the roof. A shallow puddle still held part of last night’s storm. It mirrored the skyline until her shoe broke the surface. Ripples bent the towers, folded the bridges, warped the light. She squatted and took the shot, distorted but honest.

Her cigarette burned down. She ground it out against tar lined with old scars. She sent the drone forward, easing it into a path over the avenue. From this angle, the glass palaces gave way to neon, graffiti, and storefront clutter. She caught the moment a bus opened its doors and three kids spilled out, all chewing the same gum, arms swinging in linked rhythm. A man held a bouquet wrapped in paper that flaked against his knuckles. A girl outside a club wiped glitter from her eyelid, leaving stars across her wrist.

The falafel vendor appeared at the corner, and Chloe steadied her controls. She’d named him Khaled months ago and kept him a character in her private script. The cart wobbled behind him, but he handled it like a stubborn friend. Steam rose from the trays he’d sealed. She watched him wrestle it over a pothole, shoulders rigid, then soften when the wheels caught. She captured the moment and saved it without question.

The drone drifted higher again. Lights pricked open across the blocks. Sirens wrote their quick lines and vanished. The city rehearsed beauty the way it always did when daylight thinned, and Chloe recorded each gesture with the patience of someone who both loved and mistrusted it. The hatch sat behind her, closed now, waiting to be remembered. She gave it nothing. There was still work to do.

Chloe leaned against the rooftop wall and smoked the second cigarette as if the ritual alone could pin the night in place. The city looked perfect when she let her eyes rest at the horizon. Streetlamps shimmered like gold teeth. Cranes stood frozen in mid-construction, delicate as wire sculptures. Rooftop gardens flickered in the dark, pretending at life. She could almost convince herself that this belonged to her, that she’d climbed ten flights to claim what the world denied.

But the skyline refused to speak for her life. She pulled smoke into her lungs and felt the thinness of it, the way satisfaction dissolved before it settled. She thought about the jobs she’d taken that month. The wedding where the bride blinked through every shot. The catalog shoot where a manager insisted she brighten a lamp until it looked like morning inside a warehouse. The dog portrait that ended with teeth flashing against her lens. She paid rent with those images, but none of them carried the sound of her name. She came to the roof tonight for more than a paycheck, chasing a truth that might be enough to carry her forward.

Whatever answer she’d climbed for wasn’t coming tonight.

She flicked ash into the tar and reached for the latch. The knob gave under her hand and stopped. She tried again with more weight, then again, then leaned her shoulder against it. The metal stayed firm. The wind had sealed the latch, leaving her with a night she hadn’t planned for.

For a long moment she stood with her palm flat against the door. She could call the super. She could wait until morning. Or she could keep her post and let the city confess first. Tears would count either way. Hers or the city’s. Whichever broke before dawn.

Andy howled from across the alley, and the night answered for her. His cry cracked with the kind of sorrow that had become routine. Vince had left for the train, and the dog mourned the loss. The sound pressed against Chloe’s ribs, the voice of devotion left behind. She whistled back, three notes to steady him. He paused, tilted his head, then sent an answer that carried grief and duty in equal measure. She smiled into the dark and whistled again, bending the phrase upward, teaching him something lighter. He tested it, then wove it into his howl until the roof itself seemed to hum with the new chord.

The drone sat beside her, silent in its case. She powered it up again, more from boredom than intent, and sent it over the ledge. It dropped toward the street, gliding past lampposts, awnings, and the warm glow of corner shops. Chloe watched as the city pulled back into view.

A couple argued by a bodega. Their gestures told the story more than their words, sharp hands cutting through air that carried the heat of the day. The drone caught the couple’s gestures, but not the heat behind them. It hovered, blind to what pressed between their words. A boy flicked a cup toward a bin, missed, and stood there watching as it spun against the curb. A woman leaned her weight into a stroller, her phone glowing against her cheek, her free hand smoothing hair that kept falling into her eyes. A man rested his head against a steering wheel, waiting for a light that had already turned.

The drone hovered low near a food truck parked at the corner. A man stepped into view, waiting with his hands in his pockets while the cook packed his order. Chloe recognized him. Timothy was her upstairs neighbor. He was nice, not too talkative, but always said hello in the elevator or while sorting mail.

She framed each one and pressed the shutter. Every photo held a flaw. None of them could sit on a postcard rack. She looked through the sequence, and the recognition worked like a bruise rising into color. The city wore its fractures as if they were natural. She wore hers and called them mistakes. The lens showed her the truth she kept trying to crop.

Andy’s howl returned, softer now, still full of ache. Chloe bent another whistle and sent it across the dark. He answered with a sound that bent toward calm, though still throbbed. She felt the same pulse in herself. Locked out, caught between horizon and street, with beauty stretched far away and the raw weight of life closer than she wanted. She drew the smoke down into her lungs again and promised herself she’d hold this vigil until something broke.

The roof had lost its glow. The skyline had settled into a beauty made for strangers and souvenirs. Chloe lay flat on the tar, smoke running through her throat, gravel cutting into her shoulder blades. Her jeans picked up the black dust and her palms smelled like burnt asphalt. She waited for the night to change, even a little.

Her phone lit her face. She scrolled through her contacts and called a few names, people who might have picked up if it were earlier. No one answered. They were probably sleeping or busy. She stared at the screen for a moment, then typed payphones new york city and scrolled through a list that looked like a graveyard. She copied the first number and pressed call. The ring sounded like old metal left in rain. No answer. The next one rang until her ear numbed. She tried a third. Nothing. She lit another cigarette from the last stub and called again.

On the seventh number a voice dropped in.

“Yeah?”

Chloe let the silence hang, then smiled against the filter.

“You there?”

“I am.” Smoke left her mouth with the words.

“Where you calling from?”

“Nowhere.”

“Fair enough. What’s your name?”

“Viola.”

“Violin?”

“No. Viola. Shakespeare.”

A beat. Then a short laugh. “Got it. I’m Sebastian.”

She rolled onto her side, ash falling onto the gravel. “Is that the truth?”

“It is if you don’t press too hard.”

She pictured him with his back against a dirty booth, a hand cupped over the receiver to keep the city out. The hum of traffic bled through his line, car horns faint, a shout carried and swallowed.

“What do you do at midnight, Sebastian?”

“Answer phones that shouldn’t ring. Smoke if I’ve got them. Watch people walk past me like I’m a ghost.”

Chloe tapped ash into her palm and licked the salt. “I wait.”

“For what?”

“For the break.”

He laughed, not kindly, not unkindly. “That’s the city’s favorite game.”

“And mine.”

Static surged, then eased.

“Why Viola?” he asked.

“Because she lives. Because she’s music people forget to hear.”

“That’s reason enough.”

The line thinned. His breath scraped against the receiver, then vanished.

Chloe stared at her screen until it dimmed. She called the next number. Rings answered her. Another number. More rings. She kept going until her ear felt raw. No one else picked up. The silence thickened and turned holy, a cathedral of empty lines.

She lay back again, the sky stretched blank above her, scattered with stars. Midnight had arrived, and Sebastian’s ghosts had come to keep her company.

Chloe felt the weight of the hours collect in her body. The rooftop no longer belonged to sunset. It had stretched into something else, a place where her bones ached from stillness and her throat carried the sour taste of too much smoke. She wanted release, or at least distraction. The drone couldn’t fix anything, but it could move, and that was enough.

She lifted it once more, steering toward the buildings across the block. Streetlights threw pale halos over the pavement, and fire escapes stretched across brick in black grids. She snapped a few shots, half-hoping they might bring quick money. Then she dipped the drone lower, angling it toward her own building. The lens caught a window she hadn’t meant to frame. It was Timothy’s, ninth floor. His balcony door stood open, the curtain drawn to one side.

Inside, he sat on the edge of his couch, hand moving between his thighs with the unselfconscious rhythm of someone alone, lost in self pleasure. Chloe flinched. She turned her face from the screen too late. The shutter fired. The image landed in her gallery and sat there, unwanted and real.

Quickly, she deleted it.

She cut the feed and folded the drone into its case. Nothing in her body wanted to move, but standing still felt worse.

At the edge of the roof, the dark held steady. Traffic moved below, quiet but constant. The air had cooled without her noticing. Minutes passed without shape.

Finally she noticed Timothy step out onto his balcony. He wore only a pair of shorts, his skin pale in the city light and glistened with sweat. He leaned into the rail, unaware anyone might be watching.

“Timothy,” she called.

His head jerked up. “Chloe?”

“Door locked behind me. I’m stuck.”

He squinted, then gave a slow nod. “Give me a minute.”

The hatch opened a few minutes later. Timothy wedged it wide with a broom handled and stepped through, holding a lighter in his hand.

“Guess I saved you,” he said. “Stepped out for a smoke. Still need one, though.”

“Me too.”

He lit two cigarettes and passed one to her. They sat side by side on the edge of the roof. Smoke drifted between them, white against the black sky, hanging for a moment before folding into their breath.

“So how long have you been up here?” Timothy asked.

“Since sunset. Hours now.”

“On purpose?”

“Half on purpose. Half mistake. Wanted photos. Door decided otherwise.”

He laughed, short and low. “Yeah. Happened to me once.”

“You got locked out?”

“Of my apartment. Laundry night. Shirtless. Freezing. Real glamorous.”

Chloe laughed and tapped ash over the edge. “Better than trapping you on the roof.”

They smoked in silence for a stretch. Then Timothy said, “So what were you taking pictures of?”

“The view at first. Then the city underneath it. Arguing couples. Missed trash cans. A laundromat girl folding towels. Just what was there.”

“Didn’t mean to get so close,” she said, lighting another cigarette. “The lens wandered.”

“That’s the truth of it, though.”

“I know. Truth doesn’t pay as well.”

He nodded, then gave her a side look. “You ever sell the skyline shots?”

“Only when I need groceries.”

“That often?”

“Too often.”

Their laughter rose together, small but real.

Timothy flicked ash over the ledge. “Funny thing is, I saw you flying that little machine earlier. Thought maybe you were spying on me.”

Chloe kept her eyes forward. “I don’t aim at people. The frame just landed there.”

“Fair enough.” He leaned back. “I eat falafel too late most nights. Probably not worth recording.”

She smiled. “You’d be surprised what ends up in my files.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press.

They finished their cigarettes and let the silence linger. Somewhere down the block, Andy gave one short bark and then quieted. Timothy glanced toward the sound.

“Dog cries every night,” he said.

“Until Vince comes back,” Chloe replied.

He nodded once. “City’s full of people waiting for somebody.”

They turned to the door. Timothy left the broom in the door. “Let it breathe a little. Next time you won’t be locked out.”

They reached the landing where their floors divided. Timothy nodded toward his hallway.

“Try not to get locked out again.”

“No promises,” Chloe said.

He went inside without looking back. His door closed easily, a grace the night had denied her. Chloe climbed the last steps to her apartment. Her keys slipped before the lock caught. She pushed through, dropped her bag by the wall, and let the dark remain.

The place breathed with late summer. The air was heavy, the curtains slack. She kicked her shoes away and pulled the camera from its strap. She set it on the counter, then crossed to the window and shoved it open. Car exhaust drifted in with the faint sweetness of wet concrete and the smell of bread from a bakery.

The city pressed against her glass. Windows burned in the dark, steady as constellations. From this height, the skyline showed no scars. She’d photographed it countless times, but its perfection always lied. Rent didn’t wait because the skyline shone. Hunger didn’t ease because bridges gleamed.

The camera woke under her hand when she reached for it. Images slid across the screen. First came the clean shots, arcs of light and bridges glowing in syrupy color, glass shining with a confidence she couldn’t match. She dropped them into a folder marked with the client’s name. That work would cover bread and rent for another week.

Then she turned to the others. Khaled leaned against his cart with the weight of the day written across his back. Andy stood in silhouette, ears erect, his howl carrying like the block depended on him. The boy’s cup spun at his feet, the small failure settling into truth. The laundromat woman folded warmth into towers no one would ever praise. Timothy stood in the glow of the food truck, shoulders stooped but steady, his hand clutching dinner as if it mattered.

Chloe made a new folder and called it Corner. She dropped in Andy, Khaled, the boy, the laundromat, Timothy with his paper tray. She wanted them close, wanted them hers, kept safe from the skyline that lied. The drone showed her the surface. The corner showed her the truth.

Andy barked once across the block, then quieted. Vince must have been near. The sound bent the dawn into something whole.

She shut the window halfway and left the lock undone. Smoke clung to the room like a bad habit. She slid to the floor, back against the counter, knees pulled in, the camera heavy in her lap. The light wouldn’t die, and the corner kept her.

Nothing stayed steady. Locks stuck, hours dragged, walls breathed heavy and then gave out. She held what she could until it slipped, and when it slipped she found something else. That was the way it went. Neighbors walked home with late-night food and lit cigarettes on rooftops. The grit of a life that refused to pose for postcards.

She closed her eyes and let her breath slow. The corner would hold her as long as she stayed.