About
City streets raised me into a habit no one ever asked me to develop: walking slowly through neighborhoods other people hurry past, listening to the small testimonies of peeling paint, sagging awnings, and the kind of corner shops that outlast every economic forecast. Forgotten places hold a strange dignity, and the longer I stayed in them, the more I understood that history does not always belong in books — sometimes it lives in a stairwell, a faded sign, the angle of an old window catching late light. My urban fiction works as a kind of memorial: stories about people and streets that the official city would prefer to demolish, told with the patience of a witness who refuses to look away just because the world has moved on.
