At 7:42 p.m. on a July evening, I walked past LAFD Station 29 in Wilshire Vista.

The red trucks glowed behind the garage doors and the air smelled like asphalt cooling after heat.

Two years earlier, most of my trips happened inside a car.

Movement meant stress, congestion, and silent isolation.

Walking changed the rhythm of the same streets.

Architecture appeared. Trees registered. Conversations happened.

The city revealed itself at three miles per hour.