MargenAt four in the morning the city splits in two: those who sleep and those keeping watch over something they cannot name.
From my window I watch them. The blue light of a muted television on the third floor. The cigarette flaring and fading on the balcony across the way, a small lighthouse for nobody. The baker already kneading, her arms white to the elbow, getting ahead of the day like someone forgiving a debt.
We do not know one another. We never will. But between us, without ever saying so, we hold up the edge of the night so that it does not fall on those who did manage to sleep.
When day finally breaks, we turn off our lights at almost the same moment. It is the closest thing to a goodbye that we have.