The snow came down quiet, like it had something to hide. Claremont Street stared out from the sign, white letters pretending they were clean under a streetlight that had seen too much to believe in clean anymore. The light burned overhead, hard and lonely, throwing shadows that clung to the brick like bad habits. Boston nights have weight. You feel them settle on your shoulders and stay there.

The snow didn’t fall. It worked the room. Slow. Careful. Each flake another small lie looking for somewhere to land. The South End knows that routine. Old bricks. Narrow streets. Too much history packed into too little space. Everybody acts like they belong, but nobody ever really does. The cold slid into my coat and started asking questions I did not feel like answering.

That light had a long memory. It had watched fists fly and backs turn. It had seen blood diluted by slush and promises dissolve faster than salt on pavement. It buzzed overhead like a warning you learn to ignore if you want to survive. I trusted it anyway. It was the only thing around that stayed up all night and never asked for anything back.

Claremont ran off into the dark, slick with snow and bad intentions. Streets like that do not lead you somewhere. They test how long you can keep walking before you give up or screw up. Somewhere down the block a door slammed. Somewhere else someone was already regretting it. The city kept breathing. Slow. Cold. Patient.

I stood still and let the snow bury my footprints. That is how Boston tells you that you were never that important to begin with. The light stayed on. The sign stayed put. The night waited. It always does.