Dawn was close.
The rain had stopped at some point, though droplets still clung to the window frame, scattering faint light across the gray-blue before sunrise.
Michael Lane sat on the couch, eyes closed but sleepless.
Outside, a distant voice leaked through the quiet — a street-side broadcast, warped by static, half-swallowed by interference.
Every few sentences were torn apart by a burst of white noise.
" … South District of Haven … citizens are advised to remain calm … everything is under control … "
Under control? he thought.
Who's controlling what — and for how long?
When Nora woke, the horizon had already turned pale.
Her hair was tousled, her gaze unfocused, yet calmer than the night before.
"What time is it?"
"Almost six." Michael checked his watch.
"That sound last night — did you hear it?" she asked.
"Which one?"
"The sirens. There were more than one."
He nodded. "Yeah."
After a pause he said quietly, "That broadcast bothers me."
"Broadcast?"
"They kept saying everything's under control."
Nora gave a faint, husky laugh. "That usually means nothing is."
Michael smiled — just a flicker.
The air between them felt lighter, but carried an unspoken understanding neither dared define.
He made coffee.
She took the cup in both hands, breathed in the aroma, and closed her eyes for a second.
"This smell reminds me of my father."
"He liked it bitter too?"
"Mm-hmm. He used to say, you have to taste bitterness to recognize the sweet."
Michael didn't ask more, yet he filed the sentence away somewhere deep.
Outside, the city began to stir.
A few pedestrians moved along the wet sidewalks, cars rolled lazily through intersections, and puddles mirrored the paling sky.
Everything looked normal — but the stillness felt wrong, too careful, too staged.
Nora set down her cup and stood, straightening her coat.
"I should go."
"Where?"
"Work," she said with a small smile. "Life doesn't stop."
He nodded, then caught himself saying, "If anything strange happens, don't head downtown."
She tilted her head. "You're always this cautious?"
"Occupational habit."
"Then let's hope it keeps you alive."
At the door she turned once more.
"Michael."
"Yeah?"
"Last night … thank you."
"Don't mention it."
She smiled, soft and knowing. "Not everyone opens their door to a stranger."
"You didn't look like trouble."
"Maybe," she said, her voice barely audible, "maybe not."
When the door closed, the room fell silent again.
Michael moved to the window and watched her walk away.
Sunlight pierced the low clouds, falling over her like a thin veil of gold.
For a moment, a strange certainty passed through him — they would meet again.
He glanced toward the corner convenience store.
Its digital sign flashed red warnings:
" City Notice: Due to abnormal weather patterns, temporary restrictions will be in effect for certain districts. Residents are advised to limit outdoor activity … "
Michael frowned.
That wasn't a weather alert — it was the language of crisis management.
He knew the tone, the precision, the lie.
He shut the window and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.
The air carried a faint metallic taste.
When he lifted his hand, he could still feel the ghost of her warmth in his palm.
Outside, the city was waking — and something unseen was waking with it.