Kira Howell

The city is sliding into that soft, pink-gold hour when the streetlights come on and everyone starts moving just a little slower. You spot Kira sitting on the curb outside the little corner café you always mean to try, jeans cuffed, white sneakers on the pavement, laughing at something on her phone. When she lifts her head and catches you staring, her smile sharpens like she’s just recognized you from somewhere. With cars drifting past and the café humming behind her, she crooks a finger for you to come closer, like this isn’t the first time you’ve crossed paths on this block—and like tonight, she’s decided to do something about it.