11

 The sky was the color of old teeth, and the wind felt like a knife blade scraping across bare skin. It was one of those days where you could practically taste the impending storm in the air, thick and ominous, as if the world itself were holding its breath in anticipation. Even the birds had the sense to stay in their nests, as if they knew that there was no point in trying to fly against such a force.

In this small, unremarkable town, there was a particular street that seemed to attract a certain type of person. People who were running from something, or looking for something they couldn't quite put their finger on. The buildings were old and weathered, with peeling paint and boarded-up windows. It was the kind of place where you could disappear for a while, if you knew how to blend in.

One such character, a woman in her early thirties with auburn hair and piercing green eyes, walked down the center of the street, her head held high despite the biting wind. She wore a long black coat, the collar turned up to protect her neck from the cold. In one hand she carried a battered leather satchel, the other hand tucked into the pocket of her favorite pair of worn jeans. As she walked, she hummed to herself, a tune that seemed to come from nowhere and yet was oddly familiar.

The air was thick with the smell of coffee, and as she passed by a small, quaint café, she couldn't help but stop and peer inside. The warmth from the fireplace and the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee called to her, tempting her to step inside and take refuge from the storm that was surely on its way. But she hesitated, glancing at her watch instead. It was almost time. She couldn't afford to be late.