Elara woke up and sat on the edge of the bed. The dream still stuck in her head like a half-remembered joke. In it, she had been back in her old work, but nothing went the way it used to. Targets sat across polished tables and argued over tea blends instead of running.
Her old scars had turned into colorful embroidery patterns on her sleeves, stitched like badges. She shook her head, rubbed her eyes, and walked out to the porch where Atlas already had the tea ready.
"Morning," she said, taking the cup he handed her. "Dreamed I was negotiating assassinations with small talk about weather."
Atlas nodded and sipped his own tea. "Sounds better than the real thing. You want to keep track of it?"
She thought for a second. "Maybe. Not the whole thing. Just a piece."
He pulled a twisted bit of old cloth from his pocket, the kind they used for garden ties. "Shelf in the back corner. Put a marker there if you feel like it. No pressure. Just for you."
