No one noticed the city reacting.
It started with small things. Streetlights flickered when people argued under them. The metro doors waited for late commuters who were apologizing under their breath. The city was old, older than others thought. It had seen many things, had learned a lot, and was still learning.
Jonah noticed because he always worked alone into the night.
He was an electrician repairing things like elevators and other forgotten machinery. . Late into the night at 2 a.m., the city was quiet. One of the elevators he fixed was still not working until Jonah said, "Please work." The elevator descended immediately, cables humming like a relieved sigh.
He froze. Then he laughed it off as a coincidence, telling himself it was probably a broken sensor. He went home as the sky started to become brighter.
The city remembered his voice.
The changes were small enough for most people to ignore.
Crosswalk signs stayed on longer for the elderly and parents with children. Taxis came to you before you had the time to call. Almost no one noticed this, and those who did, thought nothing of it.
Jonah began greeting buildings without realizing it.
"Morning," he muttered to a building he walked past every day.
Its windows reflected the sunrise more warmly compared to the past. Jonah paused for a second, then moved on thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him.
On his route, there was an alley he avoided. It smelled wrong-stagnant, metallic, like old rain trapped where it should not be. One night, exhausted and late, Jonah cut through anyway.
Halfway down, his skin prickled.
The alley narrowed.
He stopped. Turned around. The entrance was noticeably farther away than it should have been. His heartbeat climbed, sharp and dangerously fast.
"Hey," he said, trying to steady himself. "Sorry. Wrong way."
The alley widened and shortened.
He walked out without running.
After that, Jonah started paying more attention to the city.