I didn’t think I’d like living in New York City. But I did. Manhattan was a living, breathing thing. Well, maybe not every borough; eighty blocks north, where old ladies in designer jeans clutched pearls as they walked tiny dogs: that wasn’t it. But the Lower East Side, Alphabet City…I moved through those streets like a little drop of blood pulsing through veins, through arteries. And I started to believe in something too vast to comprehend. Or it believed in me. It saw me. It whispered to me because it knew I was listening. One day, walking past a vacant lot on the Lower East Side–a graffiti-splattered wall, an abandoned van painted in zebra stripes–something stopped me in my tracks like two hands on my chest, spun me to face the wall. Something invisible. A feeling. An echo. And I shuddered, without meaning to, without knowing why. The words shot into my head: something awful happened here. And the next time I walked by, the same thing. Every time after that, I remembered, whatever it was. And I was sorry.