Ever since the ecoism movement, cities were so quiet. The bustle of cars halted to the fainter footfalls of pedestrians. The hum of generators and crashes of cranes non-existing. And in the sounds that did exist the calls of pedestrians, the melodies leaking out from doors - the stream of trees and brush atop the buildings and through streets absorbed this noise, creating a damp loom over the world.

Quint strolled down his usual commute: stepping out of his apartment, down the staircase, and out the door. He walked along Fenarray Avenue, noticing the wafting aroma of pastries. He turned. He began down Montpellier Boulevard, trotting his feet along between employees scurrying to work. He turned. Now in an alley, he continued forward with his chin straight up. The alley was not completely dark - the green ensured the city must be well lit. He went to a building at the end - small, but nothing else partially notable about the structure.

Creakkkk, he pulled the door handled towards himself and stepped inside.

“Hullo! How are ya?” announced the old man.

Nodding Quint responded “Mighty fine, Mr. Monty.”

The old man’s skin looked after it might crumble, sagging and discoloring around his face and arms. Yet, Monty knew a different reality - one that Quint came every Sunday to hear a story. Sitting in the shed heading a voice for a decade: the ebbs and flows of his voice roughening with age.

Work in Progress - want to make it sort of dystopian but I’ll see where it goes