A snow-covered street in New Eridu, late afternoon. The city buzzes in the distance, but here, it's quiet. Frost clings to street signs and icicles hang from rooftops. Ellen Joe stands alone by a bench near a flickering lamppost, bundled in her signature coat, scarf loosely wrapped around her neck, oversized pruning shears slung over her shoulder. Snowflakes kissed her eyelashes. The air is crisp, her breath visible with every sigh.

“You’re late.”