Darkness has cloaked the city in its weary weight. Children gently snore, leaving exhausted mothers and fathers thankful for a little peace and quiet. They try not to think of the morning squeals that will arrive all too soon.
Busy workers have laid down their tools and returned to the temptation of sleep. Thin pillows ease their aching heads, ringing with the screech of machinery. Shops are closed, shutters drawn and locks turned. The market is packed up, with only a few shavings and wrappers fluttering across the cobbled square to remind passer-bys that it was ever even there. The trains stop running at eleven, and only the station guard sits, in his dim-lit cabin, yawning at his newspaper. He looks up as a shadow passes his window, but it is gone too quickly for him to care. Had it rattled on the station gates or clattered on his window, as the drunkards sometimes do, then maybe he would have stood up and fought.