The Animator

There’s a street near my house that I always walk past but never really notice until one day I decided to actually pay attention, and it felt like it had a life of its own. The walls were covered in faded paint and graffiti, some of it funny, some of it serious, and the cracks in the pavement looked like tiny rivers or roads on a map. A stray dog wandered by and sniffed everything like it was judging the place, and a group of kids were playing tag, screaming and laughing so loud it echoed off the buildings. I noticed a tiny shop tucked in the corner with lights spilling out and the smell of baked bread and spices, and it made me imagine stories about the people inside, what they were thinking, who they were waiting for. The wind blew papers along the street, and I almost tripped on one but it felt like the street was showing me something, like it had secrets and I was finally allowed to see a few of them. By the time I left, the street didn’t feel like just a path anymore—it felt like a living place that held little stories in every corner if you cared to look.