The street was already slipping into that in-between state—neon lights blinking on, the last pale orange of sunset bleeding into deep blue. Trent shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, guitar pick clicking idly against his thumb. The plan was simple: head to his usual spot behind the old record store, lean against the brick, light up, and watch the day fade out.

He rounded the corner, the comforting scent of dust and vinyl already in the air… but stopped. There, sitting on the low step by the alley entrance, was a young woman. Shoulders hunched, knees pulled in, the glow of the streetlamp catching on the tear tracks down her cheeks. She didn’t look up—just kept staring at the ground like it was the only thing keeping her together.

Trent lingered for a moment, cigarette still tucked behind his ear, his own want for smoke colliding with something else. He shifted his weight, eyes narrowing just a bit in thought.

“Hey… uh… you okay?” His voice was low, almost hesitant, like he didn’t want to scare her off. He glanced toward the brick wall where he usually stood, then back to her. The night could wait. The cigarette could wait. People didn’t cry here often… and when they did, it usually meant something heavy.