The man had started noticing things he normally wouldn't.
Not because they were dramatic.
Because they weren't.
That was what made them impossible to ignore.
Storefront shutters coming down while the artificial daylight still insisted it was mid-afternoon. Not slammed. Not rushed. Just early enough to feel wrong if you paid attention.
Conversations thinning the moment a soldier passed through them. Not stopping. Just collapsing slightly, like sound itself was being negotiated.
And the walking.
Everyone was walking now.
Not fast enough to be panic.
Not slow enough to be calm.
Just continuous motion, as if stillness had become something that could get you singled out.
His daughter skipped beside him, humming something tuneless and light, completely untouched by the shift in the air.
She didn't look up at soldiers.
Didn't track the crowd.
Didn't feel the weight of the place changing shape.
His wife did.
But she said nothing.
