#FromOneLine 434 The streets are full of ghosts who never learned to leave. They wait at bus stops with empty hands, checking watches that stopped the day the living stopped looking back. They drift through puddles that remember rains, their shoes still wet with the weather of other lives. In shop windows they pause half transparent, trying on faces that no longer fit. At night the traffic thins and they grow bolder, stepping into the road as if the headlights might finally notice them. They do not scatter, they stand, until the light goes through them and keeps going. By morning they are thinner. They fade into the steam from coffee cups, into the breath of strangers who walk a little faster without knowing why. The streets are full of ghosts, and the living walk among them with their heads down, practicing how to vanish one ordinary step at a time.