The air in Pittsburgh always carried a distinct smell of rust.
To build the center of this industrial empire, engineers had once flattened Grant Mountain.
They moved millions of tons of earth and rock, filled in ravines, all to clear level ground for power and capital to stand upon.
Grant Street stretched through this man-made canyon.
It cut through Pittsburgh's heartland, linking skyscrapers, bank headquarters, and courthouses to form the city's spine.
Shrouded in night, a great stone beast crouched at the heart of this major artery.
Pittsburgh City Hall.
It was a neoclassical building from the early twentieth century, constructed from massive granite blocks.
Soaring Roman arches, heavy stone pillars.
When the designers built it, they sought to express not just beauty, but majesty, an oppressive presence, an unshakeable order.
It was like a silent Leviathan, resting quietly over the three rivers.
