Rain had followed Isla to the city, soft and constant, washing the dust of the road from her skin but never the weight from her heart. The city itself was loud and alive, far removed from the quiet prison she had escaped. The streets smelled of smoke, sweat, and fried bread, the air humming with voices that never seemed to rest. For the first time in months, she walked among strangers and felt unseen.
Freedom was not peace—it was survival. Every day was a calculation. Every breath was a small act of defiance.
She had found shelter in an old boarding house near the edge of the market district. The rooms were narrow, the walls thin, and the windows cracked, but it was hers. No guards at the door. No eyes watching her every move. Just the faint hum of life beyond the wooden shutters.
