There was a plain wooden chair in the room they showed her; beside it sat a small table with a delicate vase holding a spray of pink flowers.

“Yes,” she said, nodding at that small glimpse the open doorway provided. “This will do just fine.”

She paid them and waited until they had disappeared down the stair before taking her meager luggage bag into the room, softly closing the door behind her. The pink of the flowers—tiny, delicate landkiss blooms, which never grew larger than the buds of most other flowers—was the only bright color her rented room boasted. The bed was as plain as the chair, made from matching wood and stain, covered with an old gray and white blanket that had seen better years; she spotted a few holes from moths along the edges. It didn’t bother her. Setting her luggage down beside the table, she unwound the thick scarf from around her neck, crossing the room to look out the large angled window that peered out opposite the bed.

Below her stretched the middle of the city; beneath a hazy sky, the buildings leaning against one another were of a better quality than the slums—the kind she remembered from before her father’s… incident.

A hot ember formed in her throat, and she swallowed to force it back into her chest, tucked behind her heart with all the others. Patience, she reminded herself. Remember to take your time and muffle your footsteps.

You will find out who needs to pay for what happened.