STORE STREET, PICCADILLY 4.43AM
When I can see that the dawn will be clear and rain free, I try to look East, where, behind Ancoats, the sky begins its daytime shift soft and golden. As this morning began there was a stillness in the area, at odds with its past and its future intentions.
Here, amongst tatty trees and unruly undergrowth, living is slowly encroaching upon working as factory units begin to quietly retreat, and flats trespass further into what was the heartland of industrial Manchester. Behind, in the distance, was Piccadilly station and the offices surrounding it, the numerous windows reflecting back the new sun at anyone making their way towards the city.
There were no trains across the bridge yet, taking people to and from Manchester. Cars came too quickly down the slope, free as children on an empty road. A man ran across a car park, as if escaping, and saw me. He stopped, put his hand to his mouth and then turned towards where he’d just come from, walking this time, and not looking back, even for a second.
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