When I was a child I used to believe that the world was different at dawn. I’ve never been outside at those ours, and used to think that the city takes another form when nobody sees it. Until that day, that could have been any, but wasn’t. A day I woke up and left bed while everyone else was sleeping. Just as if my body responded a call from the other side of the door, perhaps a supernatural force.

The street lights shining across the mist, that cold breeze impregnated with the smell of wet grass; the asphalt black and worn. As the neighborhood had always been, but deserted, had it not been for those men far away, dragging a piece of carbonized wood that was sparkling.

I don’t know where they took me, neither why I didn’t shout. I don’t know what exactly happened. Or why my parents cried for so many days. I just know that it was the world at dawn, the same we live in, but inhabit by ghosts.