The Weight of Brick and Iron
The red brick is weathered, its edges softened by time, the mortar darkened with soot. A fire escape clings to the façade, black iron bolted into aging stone, zigzagging toward the sky like an afterthought. It was meant for urgency, for last exits, but now it sags in quiet resignation, a structure no one thinks about until they must.
Once, these buildings were new. The bricks were clean, the windows clear, the fire escape a promise of safety rather than a relic of past anxieties. Now, rust gathers at the joints, and the glass reflects nothing but an overcast sky. Somewhere inside, a radiator hisses, a floorboard shifts, the weight of a century settling in. The city moves forward, but some things—like red brick and iron—refuse to go easily.
