The city had a way of feeling smaller, almost manageable, when you were walking through the fragments of your own shadow. Amara stepped out of the café and into the Saturday afternoon, the light hitting her face with a warmth that didn't feel like a threat. For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, the tight coil of tension in her gut began to unravel.
Hansen didn't take her to a fancy lounge or a rooftop bar where people went to be seen. He took her back.
They sat on a splintering wooden bench, sticky cones in hand, watching the neighborhood kids dart around. It was bittersweet. It was a reminder of a time when their biggest problem was avoiding the head matron's sharp gaze or finding enough loose change for a second scoop. Hansen was a perfect gentleman, holding her bag, pointing out the new murals on the brick walls, and listening to her ramble about nothing.
