Some signs don’t light up the street—they anchor it. This one simply says “MERLERIA LIVIA,” glowing white against the black. Not neon, not flashy. Just enough light to find your way back to something ordinary. Useful. Forgotten. Shot on a rainy night, the kind that turns every surface into a mirror. The pavement reflects the streetlamps like a memory trying to stay present. A man walks slowly, slightly hunched—not from age, maybe just the weather. Hands in pockets, coat zipped. Nothing urgent, nothing staged. The shop is closed. You can feel it. The shutters are down, but the sign is still doing its job. Reminding anyone passing that once, not…