Buildings lined the streets, standing shoulder to shoulder like too many people crowded onto a subway car. Low iron fences kept the street away from the sidewalk. Matching iron benches were dotted in front of each building. On one such bench, sat a discarded sweater, draped over the arm of the bench and moving slightly in the breeze. The edge of the sleeve was worn out and had threads hanging from it, looking like they had been picked out from the collective weave. Passers by disregarded the sweater as they walked past, too interested in their jobs, lives, and problems to be concerned with the abandoned piece of cloth. One woman, walking from the nearby hotel, briefly considered the sweater, wondering if it would match the yellow in her blouse, before the valet pulled up with her car. As the sweater sat there, lonely on the bench, a few small raindrops began to fall and wash the grime from the frequented sidewalks. One drop fell onto the faded knit fabric creating a dark spot, right next to a dark smudge of something black that had been left to stain. A sudden gust of wind accompanied the raindrops, onto the now nearly empty streets, and blew up the corner of the sweater from where it was sitting. The movement of the sweater revealed underneath, a pad of paper, covered in dark lines and smudges, with a stick of charcoal sitting on top. The pad, which had been protected from the weather by an umbrella of cotton, now began to get water marks on its pages. Just as the rain began to fall a little harder, a bell sounded from a nearby coffee shop. Out ran a girl, with latte in hand, to scoop up the waiting treasures and carry them to safety.