The city came alive at night. As her blonde hair was tossed by the wind, Emeraude gazed upon the world that she loved, hands clutched tightly as if in prayer. The city came alive at night, with all the venues lighting up, and the warm lights streaming from the windows of homes. The offices, full of workers who stayed late trying to finish their work, lit up the sky like stars. There were no stars here, just the black void of a sky not strong enough to break through. But that was all right, as the neon lights of clubs and bars winked up at her rhythmically, and cars passed lighting up in the streets between buildings, and bulbs flashed from reporters who just wanted to get their perfect shot.
The city came alive at night. No one knew that better than Emeraude, whose voice helped it come alive. Playing from those car radios at this very moment, tuned in to the most popular station in the city, was her voice.
The city came alive at night. It was a pity then, that Emeraude could not. She stared at the city from the highest building she could reach. This was her city. Her home. The people who lived here were her friends and family. She pictured each of their faces, as the wind grew harsher and the metal of the railing on her back grew colder. She took a deep breath, the chilly air slicing through her lungs. And then she let go.
The city came alive the night Emeraude died.