A few weeks ago, the fog began drifting in from the coast just as the sun dipped behind the horizon. For several evenings, it would settle into parking lots and linger in the roads, where neon lights took on a pleasant softness and the geometry of the city was erased. Ghosts emerged in the milky air, their outstretched hands reaching for mine. I was breathless and confused: why were they here? How could I be sure of what I was seeing?
As I summoned the courage to reach back, a Santa Ana was sweeping across the mountains and pushing the clouds out to sea. The skies, now unbearably clear and hot, revealed what I had feared: my hands were empty. There was nothing there.
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