Late each evening, once the lights in every window have been extinguished and the streets empty with a suddenness that borders on the disconcerting, I feel compelled to wander out into the city. Out there, at that hour, even the streetlamps seem apprehensive, casting their beams as though they wish to remain unnoticed, while the buildings behind them loom in uncertain shapes. It’s as if the entire urban expanse, animated during the day by endless clamor, were reduced at night to its truest form: silent, watchful, and vaguely conspiratorial, as if it has secrets that remain hidden even from those who built it.
I have tried, more than once, to resist the pull of these nocturnal rambles. The day’s demands, the pressing obligations of work, the trivialities that collect like dust on one’s conscience—these should be enough to keep a person indoors. Yet, in the moment just before midnight, something shifts within me. The very atmosphere changes its texture, and I become consumed by a restlessness that neither slumber nor forced discipline can quell. So I rise, dress, and venture out, propelled by a vague sense of duty I have never fully understood.
Strangely, I am not alone in this inclination. Like silhouettes cast upon a hidden stage, there are others roaming through the narrow lanes—at a distance, always just out of reach, disappearing around corners as soon as I glimpse them. Their presence, though faint, confirms that this watchfulness is no mere eccentricity of mine. Often, a hurried figure will pass me, wearing the same half-startled expression I suspect I wear myself. We exchange glances, fleeting and uncertain, as if to say, “Yes, you too are called to wander the night—but for what reason?” We do not linger to find out.
It reminds me of a theory I once heard, of a sentinel tradition handed down through eras so distant no one living quite remembers their origins. Our ancestors, so they say, would take turns keeping guard around the smoldering fires of a small village. By night they would pace the perimeter, ensuring no sleeping soul was imperiled by the hidden predators lurking just beyond the encampment. This legacy of vigilance could be etched into us as deeply as our own fingerprints. But in a city so large and so inscrutable, what are we guarding against now—if indeed we are guarding anything at all?
There is a disquieting familiarity in these hushed streets. Each building, drained of its daylight purpose, resembles a fortress. The shadows cling to corners, and whenever I approach, they twist away, leaving behind only the conviction that I was on the verge of witnessing something important. Occasionally, my footsteps echo back at me in ominous repetition, as though I am being trailed by a double of myself who is equally compelled to continue walking. It’s impossible to tell where the boundaries of this watchfulness end, or who might be the real observer in these silent transactions—the city or me.
Yet, for all the night’s unease, there is also an inexplicable sense of peace in carrying out this solitary patrol. If I pause to gaze up, I’ll see a faint scattering of stars peering between rooftops. I wonder if they, too, are participants in this unspoken contract, shining distantly upon my wandering as if to reassure me that I am not as alone as I feel. They are watchers across unfathomable distances, mirroring the smaller vigilance I perform here below.
So I persist, night after night, suspecting but never quite confirming my purpose. Perhaps I am performing a vital function so natural that its details can only be discerned by others, not by myself. Perhaps my meandering through deserted streets in the small hours only underscores the futility of seeking explanation in a world that refuses to provide it. Either way, I keep walking, quietly watchful, until the first glimmer of dawn begins to steal across the skyline. By then, the city stirs, and that special stillness recedes, leaving only the faintest trace of its power—enough, at least, to beckon me back tomorrow.
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