Lysandra stood there on the tarmac, the cold metal of the stairway biting into her palm.
As she steadied herself, the laughter from the plane’s open door still echoed, sharp and jagged like glass under her feet.
Her sweater, a soft gray thing she’d worn for years, hung loose on her frame.
Her sneakers, scuffed and faded, squeaked against the pavement as she walked toward the terminal.
She didn’t look back, not once. Her backpack, patched and fraying at the straps, bounced lightly against her shoulder.
A man in a suit—some guy with a Rolex glinting—leaned out of the plane’s window and called: “Better luck next time, sweetheart.”
The other passengers roared. Lysandra’s fingers tightened around the strap, but her face stayed calm. Her steps even.
She’d been through worse. Way worse.
Inside the terminal, Lysandra paused by a coffee kiosk, the barista’s eyes flicking over her worn clothes with a quick, dismissive glance.
