Rust.

Sunlight bleeds through the cracked windowpanes, painting dusty squares on the warped floorboards. A lone figure, hunched and small, traces the grain of the redwood wall, a whisper of warmth against the cool steel of City 4. Silence hangs heavy, a blanket woven from the stillness of a forgotten Saturday afternoon. Rust eats at the edges of the forgotten building, a slow decay creeping across its weathered skin. The air is thick with the scent of dust and time, a melancholic perfume clinging to the shadows. A sigh escapes, a tiny ripple in the quietude, a lament for the slow fading of memories held within the redwood and rust.