LILY
The night air felt colder than I expected.
Not the kind of cold that bit at your skin, but the kind that sank deeper, into your ribs, into your spine, into the places exhaustion already carved hollow.
My backpack weighed almost nothing, yet my shoulders ached as if I’d carried my entire life inside it. Maybe I had. Three shirts, one jacket, a pair of jeans, toiletries, and the tiny box Emma gave me on my first night under her roof; a place to put “good things,” she’d said. I’d never had many of those.
The city around me buzzed faintly, the way Philadelphia always did after sundown. Cars passing. People laughing in bars. Music floating through cracked windows. Life went on, loud and careless, while mine felt like it was collapsing quietly in the corner.
I walked until my legs gave
