The Quiet Morning

The cold was the first thing she felt. It wrapped around her like a second skin, stiff and biting, pressing into every joint and bone. Her breath rose in slow, quiet clouds, curling in the faint beam of her flashlight still casting a dim glow on the wall. Sylvie-Rue Elowen Vale blinked herself awake beneath her thin blanket, but she didn’t move right away. She listened first. The silence told her everything. No footsteps. No angry voices. No sounds of other people moving through the building. Just the wind outside scraping against loose boards and the occasional soft creak of rotted wood adjusting under its own weight.

She reached slowly for the wristwatch tucked near Rune and slid the worn band around her wrist. The digital face flickered, scratched but readable.

5:12 AM.

Still dark. The kind of early morning where the sky was just beginning to shift from deep navy to soft gray, not quite ready to let go of the night. The city hadn’t woken yet. It was her favorite time. The in-between hours. When the world was quiet. When no one noticed her. She sat up slowly, pulling the hoodie tighter around her shoulders. Her spine ached from the hard floor. Her fingers were numb. But she didn’t flinch. She never did. Her eyes drifted to Rune, still safely tucked against her side. She gave him a small, gentle pat and then began her routine.

The blanket came first, folded carefully into perfect corners. Her sleeves slipped over her hands as she worked, hiding the raw patches of skin on her wrists. Next came the flashlight, clicked off and checked for battery life. Then the socks—still dry—and the small ziplock bag of broken crackers. Rune went in last, his soft body nestled carefully at the top of the bag so he wouldn’t get squished. Once everything was in its place, she double-checked the zipper. Then again. And once more. She stood, knees cracking, and slipped the backpack over her shoulders. She took one last look at the corner she had claimed for the night, now bare again. Like she had never been there at all. That was the goal.

Rue stepped lightly across the warped floorboards, avoiding the creaky spots. When she reached the broken side door, she paused and pulled her hood up over her head. The wind hit her instantly, sharp and bitter, slicing through the fabric like it wasn’t even there. Her thin socks inside worn shoes did little to protect her toes. Her cheeks were already numb. But she was used to cold mornings. She was used to walking alone. She kept her head down as she moved through the neighborhood, taking the quiet back streets she had memorized over the years. Chain-link fences rattled in the wind. Old newspapers skittered across the sidewalk like leaves. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, a siren echoed faintly.

The streetlights were still on, flickering in and out, casting long, eerie shadows between buildings. She avoided the areas with broken glass. Avoided the corners where people might still be sleeping in doorways, huddled in groups, too loud, too unpredictable. Her breath came out in steady clouds as she walked. Past a shuttered bodega where the neon OPEN sign blinked weakly even though it hadn’t opened in weeks. Past the metal gate of a laundromat she used to sneak into to warm her hands until someone caught her. Past a church with chipped steps and a broken cross hanging sideways above its door. The soup kitchen was still a few blocks away.

Tucked behind an old church with worn bricks and boarded-up windows, it opened its doors at 6:00 AM every day. But the regulars lined up earlier. Rue needed to get there before they did—before the line formed and the noise started. She walked faster. The frost made the sidewalk slick. Her shoes had no grip, and she nearly slipped once, catching herself against a lamppost before moving on, face flushed with silent embarrassment even though no one had seen. That was always her fear—being seen. Not watched. Just seen.

The morning was growing lighter now, the soft edge of sunrise brushing the tops of the buildings. Pinkish gold bled into the skyline, turning the air from deep gray to dull silver. She reached the block where the soup kitchen stood and exhaled in quiet relief. Only one person sat outside, bundled in a blanket on the far end of the steps. Someone she recognized—quiet, older, never spoke to her, never asked questions. Rue nodded once as she passed, a silent greeting, and took her usual spot near the door. Not too close. Not too far.

She sat on the concrete, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. Rune was still zipped safely inside her backpack, but her hand stayed on the strap. She wouldn’t open it until she had food in front of her. She would wait. She always did. And when the doors finally opened, she’d eat fast, avoid eye contact, and disappear before anyone could notice she was there. That was how you survived.

Quietly.

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