The Edge of the Light

Dear Delyara, The clock reads 4:50 AM, and the sky directly above the eastern horizon is turning a bruised, deep purple color. The security lights across the yard have just clicked off automatically, leaving the space in a cold, raw half-light that shows every crack in the concrete. The sanctuary of the total dark is gone. In an hour, the first workers will arrive, bringing their noise, their schedules, and their casual glances that never look deep enough to see the man inside the coat. This is my last entry for the night. I am closing the notebook, tucking it away into my bag like a secret weapon, and preparing myself to face the daylight with a straight spine and an empty face.