I woke up to the sound of sirens blaring and someone shouting, “Hey! Get down from there!” A strange way to start the morning, but curiosity got the better of me. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, I dragged myself to the window.

Sure enough, a teenage girl was levitating lazily above the street, one arm raised triumphantly like she’d just scored the winning touchdown. Around her, the morning traffic had ground to a halt. People craned their necks to watch as two weary-looking police officers on a nearby rooftop shouted instructions through a megaphone.

“Come on down slowly, miss! No sudden movements!”

I snorted. Right, because sudden movements are really the issue when you’re already defying gravity.

A couple of bystanders had their phones out, probably live-streaming the whole thing. Some of them shouted encouragement like it was some kind of spectator sport. The rest just seemed mildly annoyed that their commute was being delayed by yet another powered mishap.

“It must be one of those Wednesdays,” I muttered, shaking my head. A twinge of irritation flared up—another day, another distraction. Another chance to get pulled into something I didn’t want to be a part of. Just let them handle it, I reminded myself. I’m just a guy in his pajamas, watching from a distance. It’s not my problem.

With a resigned sigh, I turned away from the window and glanced around my room. My poor, beleaguered herb garden had toppled over—again. The basil plant was drooping like it knew just what kind of day was ahead. I righted the pots, murmuring a half-hearted apology to the green leaves. Maybe I should invest in sturdier shelves? But no matter what I did, the vibrations from fights nearby always seemed to find a way to tip them over. Yet another reminder that I couldn’t escape the crazy, no matter how hard I tried.

I dressed quickly—jeans and a faded t-shirt that read I’m Here for the Chaos. The irony wasn’t lost on me, but it was either that or wear the one that said Savior of Takeout Leftovers. I even tried to convince myself I looked presentable—if not for Edith’s sake, then at least for the poor cashier I’d inevitably spook when I stopped by the market later.

Here’s hoping the rest of the day stays calm enough for me to get through my therapy appointment, I thought, not really believing it. With one last deep breath, I stepped out of my apartment, the stairs creaking in protest as I made my way down to the first floor.

The kitchen light was already on, spilling warm light into the hallway. The scent of fresh coffee and something sweet—blueberry muffins, if I wasn’t mistaken—wafted through the open doorway. Edith was in her usual spot at the small dining table, peering through her reading glasses at a crossword puzzle. Her favorite mug, emblazoned with the words World’s Okayest Landlady, was steaming beside her.

“Morning, David,” she called out without looking up. She scribbled a word in the crossword, muttering under her breath, then stabbed at it with her pen. “Got you up early, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, just a bit,” I replied, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some of the life-giving brew. “What’s going on out there?”

Edith gave a dismissive wave. “Some bright-eyed new recruit’s trying out her powers. She’s been floating around like that for a good twenty minutes now. Probably thought she’d impress someone.”

“Is it working?”

“Nope,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Just managed to give half the neighborhood a wake-up call. And now she’s stuck up there.”

I took a long sip of coffee—dark, bitter, and strong enough to jump-start a heart. “I’d say that’s one way to start the day.”

Edith snorted, turning back to her crossword. “I’d say it’s a reminder that Zenith is full of overgrown children playing with matches in a fireworks store.” She shot me a pointed look over the rim of her glasses. “You’re not planning on joining in on the heroics, are you?”

“Me?” I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Nah, I’m just here for the muffins.”

She grunted, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. “Smart boy. Now eat. You’re too scrawny for a grown man.”

I obediently grabbed a muffin, the warm, buttery scent making my stomach rumble in appreciation. There was something almost magical about Edith’s baking—like every bite of muffin or sip of coffee had the power to make the craziness outside seem a little less daunting.

We sat in companionable silence for a while, me devouring my muffin and Edith working through her crossword. The news anchor’s voice droned on from the TV in the corner.

“—a 15% increase in unregistered superhumans, many of whom are arriving with little to no knowledge of Zenith’s regulations. Authorities are advising all residents to remain vigilant and report any suspicious—”

“Vigilant, my foot,” Edith muttered, jabbing at the paper with her pen. “What good’s vigilance when there’s kids flying around like they’re in a damn comic book?”

“Maybe they’ll get it under control?” I offered weakly, more for the sake of saying something than because I believed it.

“Sure they will,” she shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And maybe I’ll win the lottery and retire to a beach in Acapulco.”

I snorted into my coffee. “You’d go stir-crazy inside of a week.”

Edith’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Probably. Besides, who’d keep you and Margaret in line?”

I grinned, swallowing the last of my muffin. “No one else is brave enough to take on that job, Edith. We’d probably burn the building down in a month.”

“You said it, not me,” she replied, her smile fading as she glanced back at the TV. The screen had shifted to footage of yet another protest outside City Hall. “This city’s a powder keg just waiting for a spark.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything at all. Instead, I just sat there, sharing the silence with her, both of us staring down the same old worries.

After a moment, Edith shook herself and pointed at the plate of muffins. “Take a couple for the road. And make sure Margaret knows I’m looking for that missing case of strawberry preserves. Someone’s been dipping into my supply, and I’m not having it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I grabbed two muffins, wrapped them in a napkin, and tucked them into my jacket pockets as I stepped outside. “I’ll let her know you’re on the warpath.”

“Damn right, I am,” she huffed, but there was a touch of warmth in her tone. “And you—stay out of trouble today. No need to go sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I promised, raising my mug in a mock toast.

“World’s worst liar, that’s what you are, David,” she said, shaking her head with a soft chuckle as she turned back to her crossword.

The world outside was already wide awake, the soft orange light of sunrise casting long shadows across the battered sidewalk. The glow made the scorch marks on the walls look almost artistic, and the breeze carried a faint whiff of smoke from the damage done overnight. In the distance, a toppled streetlight lay sprawled across the pavement, its wires humming a soft, melodic tune—like a city-sized lofi track that almost made the chaos feel strangely comforting.

I sidestepped a patch of bubbling, glowing residue—probably leftover from whatever skirmish had gone down last night—and glanced at the group of kids playing tag nearby. One of them phased through a parked car with a triumphant whoop, reappearing on the other side as if he’d just unlocked a new superpower.

“Welcome to Zenith City,” I muttered under my breath. “Where chaos is just part of the charm.”

With Edith’s muffins tucked securely in my pockets, I headed next door. The market’s front door was propped open, a cheerful chalkboard greeting me with a handwritten message:

Welcome to Fenwick Street Market!

Support Local, Shop Fresh!

The familiar scents wrapped around me as soon as I stepped inside—freshly brewed coffee, the crisp sweetness of seasonal produce, and the comforting mix of beeswax candles and herbs. It was like walking into a bubble of tranquility amid the city’s chaos, the aroma soothing away the tension of the morning.

“Dave!” Maggie’s voice cut through the gentle hum of the market, bright and full of energy. “Perfect timing! Now I can properly tear apart your latest terrible naming choices.”

I grinned as I navigated my way through the meticulously arranged displays, careful not to knock over any jars or bump into any baskets. The place was packed with everything a local market should have: rows of homemade jams and preserves, baskets overflowing with ripe tomatoes and shiny apples, shelves lined with handmade pastas, and jars of pickles that practically begged to be tasted. Right by the entrance, Maggie had set up her favorite display—my soaps and candles, front and center.

Maggie herself stood behind the counter, her brown hair pulled back into a loose pony

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

tail that had already started to unravel. She wore a light blue apron over her well-worn jeans and a simple tee. Her hazel eyes sparkled with that familiar mix of warmth and mischief.

“Hey, Margaret,” I teased, using the name I knew she hated. I leaned against the counter, giving her my best lopsided smile. “Go on, lay it on me. What’s wrong with the names this time?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite hide the smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, I dunno, let’s start with ‘Lavender Veil of the Endless Abyss’. Seriously, Dave? You’re gonna scare off the normal folks if you keep naming your products like they’re lines from a rejected poetry slam.”

“Aw, come on,” I protested, chuckling. “I thought it was catchy.”

“Yeah, catchy like a cold.” She shook her head, laughing softly. “Look, I know you’re all about quirky charm, but if you want people to buy your soaps, you need to make them sound like something they’d actually use in the shower—not like some mysterious scent that’ll send them on an existential journey they didn’t ask for.”

“Okay, okay, point taken,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “How about… I dunno, ‘Lavender Bliss’?”

Maggie pretended to think about it, tapping her chin. “Better,” she finally said with an approving nod. “It’s simple, straight to the point, and doesn’t make people question their life choices.” She glanced over at the display and sighed softly, folding her arms. “But seriously, your stuff’s been flying off the shelves, so maybe I should just let you keep naming them whatever you want.”

“Flying off the shelves, huh?” I looked at the display, noticing the empty spots where my candles and soaps should have been. “Guess I’ll need to bring down another batch tonight.”

Maggie’s smile widened, the kind that lit up her whole face. “That’d be great. A few regulars came in yesterday asking about more of the peppermint blend. Lydia even suggested we put together a little ‘Self-Care Gift Pack’ using your stuff and some of the herbal teas. What do you think?”

I blinked, taken aback. “Wow, yeah, that sounds… actually, that sounds amazing. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Because you’re too busy coming up with weird names like ‘Peppermint Breeze of Eternal Winter,’” she shot back, giving me a mock-stern look. “Leave the marketing to me, big guy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with a grin, leaning forward on the counter. “You’ve got this whole manager thing down to a science.”

“Someone’s got to keep this place running smoothly.” She puffed out her chest in mock pride, but then her expression softened. “Speaking of which, thanks for dropping by before heading out. You didn’t have to.”

“Hey, I had to deliver a message.” I leaned in conspiratorially. “Your mom’s on the warpath about a missing case of strawberry preserves.”

Maggie groaned, rolling her eyes. “Not again. I swear, she’s gonna give herself a heart attack worrying about inventory. We probably just put it on the wrong shelf. Last week, she was convinced someone stole a jar of pickles, only to find out John had moved it to the ‘Seasonal Specials’ section.”

“Doesn’t sound like your mom to let something like that slide, though.” I shrugged. “She’s got eyes like a hawk.”

“True, but she’s also stubborn as a mule.” Maggie laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’ll figure it out—just don’t let her lecture me too much, okay?”

“No promises,” I replied, raising my hands in mock defense. “You know she’ll have my head if I get in the way.”

Maggie shook her head, a few loose strands of hair falling into her face. For a moment, she looked almost wistful, but then the look was gone, replaced by her usual playful smile.

“Alright, Dave, since you’re here, I need a favor.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a small container, placing it between us with a hopeful smile. “Try one of these new energy bars I made. They’re supposed to be apple-cinnamon, but I’m not sure if the flavors balance right. And be honest—no ‘oh, it’s great’ just to spare my feelings.”

I picked up one of the offered bars and took a bite. The sweetness of the apple hit first, followed by the warmth of cinnamon and a hint of something else I couldn’t quite place. “Mmm,” I mumbled around a mouthful, “it’s actually really good. The cinnamon’s a bit strong, but it’s got a nice kick.”

Maggie beamed, her whole face lighting up. “You’re the best, Dave. I’ll tweak the recipe a bit and have a fresh batch for the weekend.”

I swallowed, feeling a strange pang of guilt. Maggie’s face was so full of hope and excitement—like she was waiting for some big breakthrough. And here I was, just breezing through life, stumbling onto things without half the effort she put in every single day.

“You’re doing great, Maggie,” I said softly, reaching out to tap her on the shoulder. “Really. The market looks amazing, and the fact that people keep coming back for more? That’s all you.”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink, and she glanced away, fiddling with the edge of her apron. “Yeah, well… it’s just the market. Nothing as big as—”

“Hey,” I interrupted gently. “It’s not just the market. It’s your market. And I think George would be proud of what you’ve done here.”

She swallowed, her eyes glistening for a moment before she blinked it away. “Thanks, Dave. That… that means a lot.”

We stood there in comfortable silence, the hum of the market around us. Finally, Maggie cleared her throat and straightened, giving me a lopsided grin. “Alright, enough with the mushy stuff. Go on, get out of here before you make me cry. Tell Mom I’ll find those preserves and drop by later to set her straight.”

I laughed, pushing away from the counter. “Will do. And I’ll be back later tonight with that new batch of candles and soaps. Just, uh, don’t judge the names too harshly, okay?”

“No promises,” she called after me with a laugh as I headed toward the door.

Stepping outside, I was greeted by the familiar hum of Fenwick’s Crossing. The lively sounds of the market faded behind me as I made my way down the bustling sidewalk. Delivery drones buzzed overhead, a few storefronts were already open for the day, and a couple of early risers waved as they passed by, their conversations blending into the background chatter.

It was the neighborhood’s usual symphony of life, and I let it pull me along like a familiar tune.

The scent of baked goods mingled with a faint hint of smoke from a recent fire as I passed a few more storefronts. Just up the block, a new art installation gleamed under the morning light—a swirling mass of twisted metal and glass that looked like it had been caught mid-explosion. Rafi’s work, unmistakably.

The official story was that Rafi had “transformed” the wreckage left by a villain’s attack into a piece of art, reclaiming the damage for the community. I’d seen the aftermath firsthand. Half the block had been reduced to rubble, with storefronts shattered and the street barely recognizable. It had taken three days just to clear the debris, and for a while, people weren’t sure if the neighborhood would ever recover.

Then Rafi had swooped in, talking about “the power of creative expression” and how art could reshape and reclaim spaces, turning destruction into something meaningful. People had been skeptical, but over time, the installation had become a landmark—a testament to Zenith’s ability to turn disaster into something almost beautiful. A few people gathered to snap photos and point out the interplay of colors, the twisting shards of metal and glass reflecting the morning light in a way that looked chaotic but oddly harmonious.

I shook my head with a small smile. Rafi’s right. Even broken things can become something new. But underneath that thought, a small part of me wondered: How many more times would we have to rebuild before the city ran out of new beginnings?

The colorful glow of the art installation faded behind me as I continued down the block. A few paces later, I spotted the new YMCA, its sleek, modern structure standing out against the older brick buildings. People streamed in and out—kids with sports gear, parents chatting, the clatter of basketballs echoing from inside.

It was hard not to notice the changes every time I walked by. The place was bigger now—rebuilt in record time, gleaming with polished stone and glass walls that seemed to shout look how far we’ve come. There was an entire floor just for the extra pickleball courts that the old-timers had argued about for months. I couldn’t see them from here, but I knew they were there—just like I knew the scars of what happened wouldn’t ever fully fade.

I’d only been in the city for a couple of years back then—still practically a kid, trying to figure out where I fit in this world. I wanted to believe I didn’t have to get involved in every single mess, that I could hold onto just one moment of normalcy.

So I didn’t act when I felt it—that ominous twist in the air that signaled something terrible was coming. Instead, I set my sandwich and coffee down on a nearby bench, telling myself I’d deal with it if things really escalated.

By the time I got involved, it was too late. The creature from the abyss tore through the old YMCA and leveled half the park before I ended it with a flick of my finger. Gone in an instant, just like that—because I was more worried about my own routine than the people around me.

They rebuilt it in weeks—3D-printed materials, drones, AI-assisted construction. Everything shiny and new, almost as if the city wanted to replace every single reminder of that day. Twice as many rooms, an expanded gym, and those extra courts…like they thought stuffing more into the building would fill the hole it left.

“Guess you got a new start, huh?” I murmured under my breath, shoving my hands deep into my pockets and turning away.

But that didn’t change the fact that, back then, I was too naive to realize what was at stake. The city could rebuild a structure, make it bigger and better, but it couldn’t erase the mistakes I made—all because I didn’t want to accept that, like it or not, I had a role to play in this world.

The scent of smoked meat wafted through the air a few blocks down, pulling me out of my thoughts. A familiar aroma that could only mean one thing: I was approaching Joe’s Deli.

Joe’s stood at the corner of Fenwick and Ridge, a stubborn fortress of comfort food amidst the shifting landscape of the neighborhood. Joe himself was stationed at the entrance, arms crossed over his barrel chest, his gaze sweeping over the street like he was daring someone to mess with his turf.

“Keep on walking, Peterson!” he barked the moment he saw me, his voice carrying across the street with the force of a bullhorn. A few people turned to stare, their curiosity piqued.

I raised my hands in mock surrender, a grin spreading across my face. “Didn’t even say a word, Joe. Just admiring the place.”

Joe’s scowl deepened, though I caught the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah. Just keep on admiring from over there, will ya? The last time you ‘admired’ something, I ended up with a broken awning and a roof full of flying debris.”

“Wasn’t me that threw it,” I called back, but Joe was already turning back into his shop, muttering something about “troublemakers” and “never-ending insurance claims.”

I shook my head, chuckling softly as I continued down the street. Joe’s Deli had become something of a neighborhood legend—surviving everything from monster attacks to superhuman brawls without so much as closing its doors. Sure, the building had taken a few hits, and some parts looked newer than others, but it was still standing. And in a city like Zenith, that was a badge of honor.

The sidewalk grew quieter as I left the main stretch of Fenwick’s Crossing and headed toward the riverfront. The buildings thinned out, giving way to more open space, and the air carried a faint chill as I approached the entrance to the Meridian River.

The stone archway rose up ahead, its surface covered in ivy and etched with faded symbols that spoke of a time long before Zenith City became a superhuman battleground. I paused for just a moment, taking in the sight of it—one of the few places in the city that still carried the weight of its history, untouched by the chaos that seemed to reshape everything else around it.

Stepping through the archway, I felt an immediate shift—a subtle change in the atmosphere as the sounds of the city softened, replaced by the steady rhythm of water against stone. The path curved gently to the right, and there it was: a simple bench tucked beneath the shade of an old willow tree, the branches dipping low as if offering shelter from the world.

I made my way to the bench and stood in front of it, glancing at the small brass plaque fastened to the backrest, its lettering worn but still legible:

In Memory of George Higgins.

He faced the storm, so others wouldn’t have to.

“Morning, George,” I murmured softly, my voice barely louder than the whisper of the breeze through the willow’s leaves. “Place looks good. The whole area’s coming back strong.”