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I roll up to this spot, shady as fuck. Neon lights flickerin’, smellin’ like regret and cheap perfume. This chick, she struts out—heels clackin’, skirt shorter than a blunt wrap. I’m like, “Damn, girl, you workin’ hard or hardly workin’?” She grins, all sassy—reminds me of Monty’s crew, hustlin’ to survive. “This is my last night,” I mutter, quotin’ *25th Hour*, feelin’ deep. She don’t get it, but whatever, vibe’s still cool.

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So, I’m cleaning up my mess, and I spot this old dude sitting on a bench. He’s got this wild beard and a hat that looks like it’s been through a war. I’m thinking, “This guy’s seen some stuff.” So, I go over and start chatting with him. Turns out, he’s lived in Bleiswijk his whole life. He tells me stories about the old days, when the streets were dirt and the canals were full of fish. I’m just sitting there, listening, and it’s like I’m transported back in time.

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