By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©
The City of Echoes
They told him Newvale was easy to navigate—just a grid of neatly intersecting streets, all named with letters and numbers. A1 to Z26, crosscut by 1st to 99th. Clean. Logical. Unmistakable.
That’s what made it so disorienting when Jonah realized he was lost.
He turned down H12 Street, or maybe it was H21. The signage shimmered under a weak afternoon sun. Every block held the same slate-gray buildings with mirrored windows. Every corner had a coffee shop called “BeanSync,” identical inside and out. The same barista. The same music looping—something jazzy and off-tempo that made his nerves vibrate.
He pulled out his phone to get his bearings. No signal.
No GPS. No bars. Just a cheerful little message:
“Welcome to Newvale! You are here.”
The map spun in place, mocking him.
He asked a woman passing by, dressed in a green trench coat.
“Excuse me, which way to Central Station?”
She stopped, smiled with blank politeness, and said,
“Just follow H Street until you reach 12.”
“I’ve already passed twelve blocks.”
She nodded, like that made perfect sense, then walked off.
He turned the corner again—there was “BeanSync,” again. The same man spilled his coffee at the same outside table. The same dog barked twice, then ran to the same hydrant.
Jonah checked the street sign: H12.
He spun around.
So was the last corner.
He began to walk faster, then jog. He changed directions at random—A Street to W Street to Q16. All the same buildings. Same people, repeating like shadows in a broken projector.
Finally, panting, he stopped inside yet another BeanSync.
“Do you serve anything besides Americano?”
He asked the barista.
She smiled.
“Just follow H Street until you reach 12.”
His heart sank.
Behind the counter, a door creaked open. A man stepped out—rumpled, eyes twitching, holding a half-empty cup.
“You’re new?”
the man said.
“Lost?”
“Yes! How do I get out of here?”
The man leaned close.
“You don’t.”
Jonah backed away.
“What do you mean?”
“The city loops. It doesn’t end. It just resets.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Neither is ten identical–baristas named Kira.”
Jonah turned to look. The barista waved cheerfully.
Back outside, he ran. He tried screaming. No one noticed. Or rather, they all noticed in the same way—heads turned in perfect rhythm, brows raised identically, disinterest coordinated like choreography.
It was dark by the time Jonah found a bench.
Across the street, a woman in a green trench coat asked a passerby,
“Excuse me, which way to Central Station?”
Jonah watched the man smile politely and answer,
“Just follow H Street until you reach 12.”
The woman nodded and walked off.
The bench creaked beside him.
A man sat down. Rumpled. Cup half-full.
“You’re new?”
he asked.
Jonah nodded slowly.
The man sighed, sipping.
“It’s not a city. It’s a maze. It just wears the mask of civilization.”
Jonah looked up. Above the buildings, a flickering billboard blinked to life:
“Welcome to Newvale! You are here.”
Still. Always. Unchanging.
And somewhere, jazz played again.
Looping. Forever.
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