"The Red Crossing"
It was dawn. The sun, still undecided, drifted slowly between the buildings, brushing the street with strokes of red.
Light spilled across the crossing, catching coats, umbrellas, hurried shoes — turning each passerby into a brief silhouette of fire.
The buildings rose like walls of heat and memory, their windows catching the last fire of the day.
Red bled into everything — the glass, the pavement, the reflections trembling in the wet asphalt. It was impossible to tell whether the city was glowing… or burning.
Strangers gathered at the crosswalk, stitched together for a fleeting moment by painted lines and silent understanding.
No one spoke. The city did the speaking — in reflections, in footsteps, in the hum beneath the pavement. 
Some faces looked forward, others down, each carrying private thoughts, private destinations.
For a breath in time, they all belonged to the same story — held there between night and morning, between where they had been and where they were going.
Then the signal changed… and they were gone — carried back into their separate lives by the moving current of the city.