He walked up the spiral staircase, its frame of wrought iron and his boots of leather and rubber. Honey and cinnamon hair curled down past his shoulders, sweeping back and forth in a rhythmic motion against his maroon leather trench coat. The building was eerie in its quiet as deserted buildings often are. There was a slight luminescence on the wall up head which proved to be a mirror-like surface of golden metal; its purpose long forgotten and hard to decipher in the current state of dilapidation. The man�s countenance passed by; crisp white button shirt, casually worn jeans, high cheek bones, and amber eyes distorted by the enigma. He finally seemed to reach what appeared to be a destination when he opened the single brown door onto the rooftop garden. The garden was kept in an immaculate condition which shamed the rest of the building and cast the garden itself in a mean-spirited light. He continued his sojourn through the narrow paths of the tropical green and right out the glass door which kept the bitter fall from reaching the canned summer paradise. One at a time, the thick rubber soles of his hiking boots crushed themselves against the ledge. And then they felt nothing but air.