The Pale Gray Sky Over the Rails

Dear Delyara, It is 5:40 AM, and the horizon directly behind the railway line is turning a cold, sharp shade of silver-grey. The automated floodlights around the perimeter have just deactivated with a loud, synchronized click, exposing the entire industrial estate in that raw, unfiltered morning light where every stain on the concrete is visible. The protection of the dark is gone. In less than an hour, the day shift will arrive with their normal conversations and their casual glances that look straight through this uniform without ever recognizing the creator standing inside it. I am closing this journal, packing my laptop into my bag like a concealed blueprint, and preparing my mind to face the daylight with an unbending spine.