★★★ The eastern sky above the buildings was blinding with cloud-scattered light. The barbershop door stood open; a man walked by outside trundling a cartload of catering food. Pink and white petals had fallen to the ground and were being trampled into brown smears. People stepped back in the reclaimed pedestrian zone to shoot photos of the Flatiron Building. The breeze was cool on the newly exposed ears. The clouds began to dim the sun appreciably. By afternoon’s end, a shower had dampened everything. The air by the churchyard on Prince Street smelled like wet stones. Further on, the smell was wet metal, then wet grime. Even as the pavement was drying out, the discolored clouds promised it wouldn’t be dry for long.