Ghosts in the Glaze
The old tiles of the Underground, worn smooth by a century of footsteps, hold the weight of a city that has long forgotten the hands that placed them. Laid in neat, deliberate rows, their patterns—simple geometrics, rich greens, deep oxblood reds—once promised order in the chaos of transit. The men who set them, laborers bent over in the dim tunnels, worked by gaslight, dust settling in the creases of their skin. They dreamed, perhaps, of quiet houses beyond the city, of air unthickened by soot. Instead, they left behind a grid of ceramic and mortar, a beauty unnoticed, except in passing.
Now, the tiles crack, their edges chipped where time and hurry have pressed too hard. Newer panels, cleaner, colder, replace them without ceremony. But in certain stations, if you look closely, you can still see the old patterns beneath the grime, the fingerprints of a workforce long gone, a quiet reminder that this city was built by men who spent their lives underground, carving out its arteries, laying down its bones.