They called it the Big Tower, though from the tiny square it rose like an accusation: steel ribs and glass plates stacked into the sky until the clouds shrugged in annoyance. The square itself was almost comically small — a patch of cobbles hemmed by shuttered cafés and a single, stubborn plane tree. People squeezed through the gap between bench and fountain as if the square were a throat and the tower its unignorable, vertical voice.