The chill clung to Mavis’s bones as she made her way through the half-dead town. Ashenbrook, still slumbering under a blanket of gray mist, offered little comfort. Smoke curled like ghost fingers from bent chimneys, and a stray cat darted past her feet with a hiss, vanishing into the shadows. She kept her head down. Eye contact in this town was often an invitation to trouble.

By the time she reached The Gourmet Garage, her fingers were stiff, and her breath showed in white puffs. She entered through the back, her knuckles raw as she twisted the frozen doorknob. The familiar stench of rotting meat, mildew, and stale beer greeted her like an old enemy.

Inside, the dim lights buzzed above cracked tiles, and behind the register stood Mr. Grubb Heishenwood, already deep into his morning liquor.

“Well, well,” he slurred, lips slick with spittle. “If it ain’t my little frostbitten broom girl.”

Mavis ignored the leer in his voice and set to work mop, bucket, rags. Always in that order. She moved with quiet efficiency, wiping counters and scraping grease from the butcher’s block while Grubb staggered around muttering vulgarities, more to himself than anyone else.

He watched her sometimes too long, too deliberately. And every glance made her feel like a mouse in a snake’s den.

“You missed a spot,” he barked suddenly, pointing to a corner she’d already cleaned. “Docking your pay. Again.”

He said it every day. Whether it was a nonexistent smudge or an invented mistake, he always found a reason to take from her. A copper here. A nickel there. Like it was his sport.

But Mavis said nothing. If she talked back, it might turn into something worse. Grubb had a reputation in Ashenbrook, a foul one. People whispered about what he did behind closed doors, about the girls who’d gone in and never returned, or came out quieter than they’d gone in.

The bell above the front door jingled.

A tall man in a gray overcoat entered, tipping his hat without making eye contact. Mavis watched him briefly not a regular. He asked for a pound of salted pork and left with a nod.

Moments like that gave her room to breathe. The brief passing of someone normal. Someone who didn’t smell like sweat, gin, and something darker.

As the clock inched toward 7:20 a.m., Mavis rushed into the backroom to change into her school clothes. She emerged, straightened her collar, and began to slip out the back door.

“Try not to be late again,” Grubb called after her, voice oozing with sarcasm. “Would hate to have to come looking for you.”

She didn’t answer. She just ran.

Down Hemlock. Across Vicar’s Row. Past the cemetery gates where the stones stood like crooked teeth. Her breath was shallow, her pace steady. No one ever looked twice at a girl like her running through Ashenbrook.

By the time Blackwood High came into view, the bell was already ringing.

But she was used to being late.

The heavy black gates of Blackwood High creaked shut behind Mavis just as the second bell finished ringing. Her shoes were still damp from the morning’s grime, and her satchel swung limply against her side, one strap threatening to tear.

As she hurried past the ivy-wrapped courtyard and toward the east wing, a familiar voice halted her in her tracks.

“Mavis Valtor.”

She froze.

There, standing by the entrance to the classroom block, arms folded, was Mrs. Luminari — tall, slender, and regal in her gray skirt suit. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled tightly into a bun, but her hazel eyes glowed with something between disappointment and concern.

“You’re late. Again.”

Mavis lowered her eyes. “I—I know, ma’am. I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Luminari didn’t yell. She never did. But somehow, her silence stung worse than shouting. A long pause hung in the air, and then she stepped forward, gently placing a hand on Mavis’s shoulder.

“I don’t want you getting used to this,” she said, voice softer now. “The world will never care why you're late. Only that you are.”

Mavis swallowed hard.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Luminari sighed. “I know things are… difficult at home. And wherever else you run off to before school. But you’re fifteen, Mavis. You shouldn’t be dragging yourself through fog and filth before sunrise just to come here.”

Mavis didn’t respond. What could she say? That her options were either wiping spilled gin and week-old pickle juice off Grubb’s counters or going without dinner? That the last time she stayed home past five, Viletta burned her shoes in the fireplace as punishment?

Still, Mrs. Luminari’s tone shifted, just enough to offer her a tiny sliver of grace.

“You’re the brightest girl I’ve ever taught,” she said. “Don’t let this town grind you down. You’re meant for more than Ashenbrook’s gutters.”

That part nearly undid her.

Mavis blinked fast, biting the inside of her cheek.

“I’ll do better,” she murmured.

Mrs. Luminari gave a faint nod. “See that you do. Now go on, before I start marking you absent.”

Mavis hurried off toward her classroom, but not before catching the sneer of Ruby Ryder by the lockers — arms crossed, whispering something into Ravenna Ripley’s ear while Sasha Steele giggled like a drunk hyena.

“Look who got another mercy pass from Mother Luminari,” Ruby hissed as Mavis passed. “Maybe if we all smelled like pork grease and cleaning soap, we’d be top of the class too.”

Mavis didn’t look back. She kept walking, her footsteps echoing down the tiled corridor.

The murmurs behind her faded as the classroom doors opened and students began to file in. Mrs. Luminari followed a moment later, clipboard in hand, her heels clicking a steady rhythm that somehow calmed Mavis’s racing heart.

Inside Room 4C, the smell of chalk and old paper replaced the stink of the butcher shop. The walls were lined with crooked maps and half-erased equations. It wasn’t much — but it was far better than what waited outside.

Mavis took her usual seat by the window, the one with the wobbly leg and etched initials from students long gone. She pulled out her exercise book, smoothed the frayed edges of its cover, and waited.

The rest of the girls trickled in — Ruby, Sasha, Ravenna — giggling behind painted lips and petty eyes, but none of them sat near her. They never did.

As Mrs. Luminari closed the door and cleared her throat to begin, Mavis exhaled quietly.

Another morning survived.

And sometimes, that was enough.