The Pale Pink Edge of the London Horizon

Dear Delyara, It is 5:30 AM, and the sky behind the skeletal iron frame of the old gasometer isn't grey anymore—it has turned a very soft, pale pink, like the inner lining of a sea shell. The morning shift supervisor’s car has just turned into the main gate, its headlights cutting through the dawn mist. My time in the dark is officially up. I am closing this journal, sliding my laptop into my bag, and preparing to hand over the keys with a polite, neutral nod. The uniform will be handed back, the guard will step aside, and the husband, the founder, and the human being will finally walk out into the light to go home.