The shelter district woke to the smell of warm nothing. No oven-smoke rose across the avenue, and no bread cart ground over the pale stone at first light.
The blue civic lines along the curbs pulsed once and pushed their morning assignment into every kitchen on the block. Each single kitchen answered the network the same way: closed.
Juna found Hajin in the shelter doorway with the sleeping child's blanket folded under one arm. The boy's medical mark still glowed faint against his ribs in the half-dark.
Outside, three full districts waited for bread the broken northern route would not deliver, the silence of closed kitchens pressing against every door.
'I chose the shelter last night, and the bread chose to disappear, so both sit on me.'
His thumb pressed into the doorframe until the wood bit back.
A woman crossed the avenue carrying an empty basket past the civic line. Her gaze stayed fixed on the stones, since meeting the line could read as refusal.
