Late at night, she went back up to the roof.
The skyline was back where it belonged—far enough out not to make you dizzy.
A breeze skimmed the city’s skin like it was trying to sweep up dust.
The phone buzzed. A message with no sender: “I hear you.”
She let her hand drop. “I don’t know who you are,” she said into the air, nice and polite. “But I know that sound.”
She didn’t answer. She acted like that was a choice. Then she stopped acting—and made it.
