The city was quiet, almost too quiet. James noticed it immediately—how the puddles reflected the first weak light of morning, how the faint smell of wet pavement mingled with the faint scent of exhaust from an early car somewhere down the street. Notting Hill’s narrow lanes seemed fragile, like glass, as if a single wrong step could shatter the fragile calm.
Penelope walked beside him, her hand brushing against his once or twice, small, tentative touches that made his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He caught the hint of nervousness in her step—the slight catch in her gait, the way she hesitated at each curb before stepping onto the slick pavement.
“You feel it too?” she asked, voice low, hesitant.
James glanced at her, noticing the way her hair fell loose over
