Chameleon Magazine

A city of glass towers rose where once there had been only sand. The people lived by the clock—machines hummed, screens glowed, and feet never slowed. They built higher, faster, brighter, until even the stars seemed dim beside their neon glow.

One evening, an old engineer gathered a group of apprentices on the rooftop of a skyscraper. “Do you hear it?” he asked. They listened, but only the city’s endless murmur filled their ears. “No,” he said, “listen deeper.” Still, they shook their heads.

He smiled and told them, “There is one law the city has forgotten: a day when the lights dim, the machines rest, and our hands lie still. Only then will the silence speak.”

The next week, he powered down his workshop for a full day. At first, it felt like waste—lost hours, lost earnings. Yet by the evening, he noticed something the others had missed: the wind carried songs between the towers, and the stars, long hidden, returned. Soon, more workers tried it, until whole blocks of the city fell into hush one day each week. Families gathered on rooftops, children painted walls with bright colors, neighbors broke bread together.

The city, once enslaved to its own brilliance, rediscovered the darker sky above and the lighter spirit within.

“The world grows loud, but only in silence do we remember who we are.”