A Morning at 102.0

Lin looked at her. Fifteen, hair tied high, neck thin and bright under the kitchen light, like a wire left too long in the sun. Recently she spoke to him with the careful precision of a blade laid flat on a table. No blood. Just the sound of metal. “Not today,” he said. Sofia slammed the fridge shut and finally looked at him. “You say that like it’s a temporary update.” Outside, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Someone was dragging a plastic bag full of cans. They clinked together with a dull, empty sound. Every day in this city now seemed to speak in small noises like that, subtle reminders that normal life was still present, but loosening at the seams. Lin reached for his jacket, then paused. A new email had arrived from an unknown sender.