The moment I reached out, I felt the familiar tingling in my arm. The muscles tensed of their own accord as my arm began to stretch. It was as if my body knew the route it was taking, along narrow streets, across squares, and through parks. My hand glided effortlessly over cars and along rows of trees, like a bird stretching its wings. I saw other arms moving in the same direction—strings of greetings that floated through the city on their way to a meeting. It was rush hour, you could tell. The air was full of hands, seeking each other. Some arms were intricately wrapped around each other, like ivy on a wall. The moment all the hands met always brought a strange kind of silence. A breathless pause, hundreds of fingers clasping and shaking each other at once. Sometimes it felt as if the city had paused.