The sun had barely broken over Northvale when Frank Miller woke up. The flat was still half-unpacked — cardboard boxes stacked in corners, a few clothes spilling out of open suitcases. The air smelled faintly of dust, coffee, and cigarette smoke.
He stretched, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and glanced toward Zoey's door. It was half open. She was still asleep, one arm hanging off the bed, the sheets tangled. For a second, Frank just watched quietly — she looked so different like this, peaceful, like none of what they were caught in existed. Then he turned away, grabbed his hoodie, and stepped outside.
The morning air was cool, the streets calm. Northvale at dawn had a strange stillness — like the whole city was charging itself before the chaos of the day. Frank started walking down the lane, taking in the neighborhood: rows of neat little houses, a grocery store just opening, and the faint hum of electric trams in the distance.
