The whistle at the paper mill screamed too long, like it was mocking the workers clocking out. Agna peeled off her gloves, palms raw from catching damp sheets of pulp all night. She folded her stained uniform into a plastic bag so the smell wouldn't cling to her room.
Outside, the streets were slick from drizzle. Not alleys—just the long walk past warehouses and shuttered stores. Vending machines hummed, throwing pale light on puddles. Agna counted her coins as she walked. Barely enough for the week—unless she skipped dinner again.
The boarding house kitchen was noisy with steam and voices. Someone reheated curry rice, someone else argued over soy sauce. Agna scraped the bottom of a pot, found a ladle of thin okayu (rice porridge), and poured it into her bowl. A sick kid at the table stared too long at it, so she slid the bowl his way. "Not hungry," she lied.
Back outside, she stopped at Obaba Tsumugi's shop. The old woman's window was stacked with fabric and spools. Agna pushed the door open, the bell giving a tired chime.
"You're late," Tsumugi said, not looking up.
"They ran the rollers hot again." Agna unwrapped her palm. A blister swelled round and bright.
Tsumugi dabbed a salve that smelled of mugwort and pine. "This keeps the bad heat from settling." She reached for a length of red thread, wrapped it twice around Agna's wrist, and tied a knot. Then she showed her a slow roll of her wrist, soft as pouring tea. "When someone grabs, turn like this. Tiny motion. Big escape."
Agna laughed under her breath. "Feels silly."
"Silly is cheaper than coffins."
She left into heavier rain. The shortcut behind the warehouses looked quiet enough. Halfway through, three boys in clean school jackets blocked the path.
"Wallet," one said.
Agna showed her empty hands. "Coins for the bus. That's it."
The tallest reached for her wrist. She remembered Tsumugi's roll—turned just as his grip closed. His hand slipped off like she'd greased it. Her heel slid, body shifting sideways, and suddenly he stumbled. Nothing flashy, just a stumble, but his friends laughed at him without meaning to.
Agna walked away without running. Her heart thudded, but her face stayed calm.
Past the warehouses, she stopped in front of the shuttered candy shop. Its window was gray, but memory painted it full of jars. She saw her younger self, clutching a sugar star saved too long. She saw the boy who snatched it, laughed, and threw it into the gutter. How heavy that candy had felt when it was hers.
Rain pressed harder. From the corner of her eye, she caught a courier girl sprinting with a parcel, three men on her heels. Agna froze. Not her problem. Not yet.
Back in her small room, she stared at the red-thread knot around her wrist. It felt silly, yes—but she didn't untie it.
"Maybe silly was better than nothing," she murmured.
The rain kept falling.