An inch tops the cement partition between my studio and the Green Line. The T rumbles by and slows to stop at Fenway. Late-night riders—insects in amber, bundled up numb, fixed to their phones. Withered vines outside the window cling to the screen, trap tiny drifts in their elbows. My weather app says it will come down all night. I hope it keeps Boston in bed tomorrow, covered by a silence that makes everyone stop and listen.