Her room, small for the money she paid, had a wide corner window that brought a fresh breeze in the evenings. Sometimes, she could smell the cut grass from Greenwood Cemetery, a taste of countryside she never knew. Alice hadn’t been here in three days, and the blinds were closed, their thin white cloth giving the room a silvery sheen. The space was clean and tidy; her military routines so ingrained it was impossible to leave a mess. The kitchen, as it was, occupied the corner opposite the window with its tiny oven at one end, a battered and buzzing fridge at the other. A stained and scratched steel sink sat in the middle, empty apart from a dripping tap—something she meant to fix. A dark wooden table was tucked next to the fridge and held a clean vase filled with fresh sunflowers, a gift from Red, the street kid whose life she’d saved on the Bridge a few years back.