The Bruised Light Over the Fence

Dear Delyara, It is 5:35 AM, and the sky directly above the industrial estate is turning a cold, bruised shade of gray-blue. The automated floodlights across the yard have just clicked off with a loud, mechanical clack, leaving the whole site in that raw, exposed half-light where every crack in the concrete shows through the mist. The sanctuary of the dark is officially over. In less than an hour, the day staff will start arriving with their engine noises, their coffee cups, and their casual glances that look right through the uniform without ever seeing the designer standing inside it. I am closing this notebook, packing my laptop away into my bag like a hidden weapon, and preparing my face to meet the daylight with a straight spine.