The square outside Hollow Creek Hall still smelled faintly of wet cardboard and marker ink from the protest signs. Emily crossed it at first light, the town quiet enough that her steps sounded like punctuation on damp stone.

Maple Street held its breath. Puddles set the houses upside down. The porch of Maple House creaked once as she climbed the steps and set her hand on the door.

Inside, the air had cooled overnight. Grace had fallen asleep sideways on the sofa, one heel still on, her laptop dimmed to a screensaver of slow-moving stars. Emily tucked a blanket over her and stood a moment listening to the house remember how to breathe.

She made coffee that went cold while she watched steam crawl the windowpane. Across the glass, Harbor & Thread sat with its lights off, the sign a pale rectangle in the morning gray.

She slipped on her coat.

The bell above Harbor & Thread answered before she could knock. Liam looked up from a bolt of denim, chalk line still bright across the cloth. The shop smelled of cedar, coffee, and rain that had followed her in.

“You’re early.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

“You used to say that meant you were thinking too much.”

“I am.”

“About the meeting.”

“About what comes after the clapping.”

She set her gloves on the counter and let her fingers warm against the paper cup he slid toward her.

“You were good yesterday.”

“You hiding in the back doesn’t count as attendance.”

“I didn’t want Collins to make me the point.”

“He did anyway.”

“He always does.”

She traced the rim of the lid as if it were a map she needed to memorize.

“I changed one line in the draft last night.”

“Which line.”

“‘Low-Value Area: Eligible for Partial Demolition.’”

“What did you write instead.”

“‘Preservation Recommended — Historic Value Pending Review.’”

“That’s a better kind of trouble.”

The street outside yawned awake, a delivery truck splashing through a shallow lake at the curb. Light climbed the racks of shirts in soft increments, turning everything the color of a kept promise.

“Do you remember the field after rain,” she said. “How the dirt turned silver.”

“I remember you hating wet socks.”

“I remember leaving before the game was called.”

“I stayed until the umpire ran out of voice.”

She looked up.

“You’ll stay again.”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You do.”

“Grace arrives in an hour.”

“Then you should practice your brave face.”

“I’m out of practice.”

“It suits you less than the real one.”

A clock in the back clicked to the half hour. The coffee had cooled enough to drink without wincing. She set the cup down and pulled her gloves close.

“I should get back before she wakes up and starts naming my feelings.”

“She’ll name mine too.”

“She’ll try.”

“She’ll win.”

The bell rang when she stepped out. The door closed on a draft of coffee and cedar. She crossed the street with her coat open, the morning air biting her collarbone like a reminder to be present.

Grace was awake when Emily returned, hair a storm, blanket a cape. The laptop sat upright, a sentence frozen mid-verb. A pen had rolled to the floor and waited for rescue.

“You left me in a haunted museum.”

“You were asleep.”

“I was in research mode.”

Grace sat up and scanned the room as if it were testimony on a stand.

“Report.”

“Coffee.”

“From where.”

“You know where.”

“Did he look at you like a cliff or a lighthouse.”

“Both.”

“Excellent. Those are expensive eyes.”

Emily opened the windows one inch each. October pushed in, smelling like wet leaves and distant smoke. The house stretched its joints in small, approving noises.

“We have a market today,” Grace said. “Cabbage the size of childhood traumas. Handmade soap that costs an apology. You’ll love it.”

“I’ll survive it.”

“You’ll run into him.”

“I just did.”

“Then we call it a pattern.”

Grace stood, buckled her heel, and checked her reflection in a dull picture frame that offered only honesty.

“You wore that scarf on purpose.”

“I packed this scarf two apartments ago.”

“You kept it for this morning.”

Emily folded the blanket and placed it on the arm of the sofa. The hem of the fabric remembered the shape of previous winters.

“Do not narrate me.”

“I’m paid to narrate.”

“Not in my house.”

“Especially in your house.”

They ate toast standing, their plates leaving brief ovals on the dusted counter. The kettle rattled once then stilled.

“You changed the draft,” Grace said. “What did it feel like.”

“Risk that sounded like me.”

“Good. Keep sounding like you.”

Outside, the town gathered itself into small errands. A dog shook rain off its collar in perfect circles. A child hopped between two mirrored skies without getting wet.

They walked toward the square with paper bags folded under Emily’s arm. Maple Street emptied into the market like a creek deciding to trust the river again. Stalls lifted their canvas roofs; apples went from crates to pyramids; a woman with a braid the length of a long decision arranged jars of honey so they caught the new light.

Noah Bennett waved from a folding table where he’d stacked knit caps in stubborn colors. He looked like optimism in a jacket two sizes too big.

“Morning, Ms. Rhodes.”

“Morning, Noah.”

“Boss said to tell you the blue flannel is on sale.”

“Is that a threat or a promise.”

“Depends who’s buying.”

Grace leaned toward Emily without hiding her voice.

“He’s adorable.”

“He’s seventeen.”

“He’s still adorable.”

They paused for coffee poured from a stainless thermos that had lived other lives. The market found its volume slowly, like a choir warming its vowels. Leaves shook themselves free of branches in singles and pairs.

Mayor Collins appeared in a suit that had never met the concept of Saturday. He shook the air near people’s hands and nodded as if that were kindness. When he spotted Emily, he adjusted his tie as if it were an argument.

“Ms. Rhodes.”

“Mr. Mayor.”

“Productive evening, I hope.”

“Depends what you call productive.”

“Sleeping is a kind of progress.”

“Not when the roof leaks.”

His smile narrowed, tacked at the corners like a poster in the rain.