Echoes of the Brutalist Playground

In the shadow of iron and concrete, the echoes of laughter have long

since faded. Colors remain as ghosts of joy, standing amidst mud and the silence

of an old world. Above, the windows watch like empty eyes,

hiding figures that move in the condensation. A solitary figure descends,

his cries lost to the cold wind of a forgotten autumn. Time stands still

here, trapped between the rust of the playground and the weight of the

sky. Do not look too long into the glass, for the city

remembers what we have forgotten.