Ziva Mace was late. Again.
The city of Dresmoor didn't do mornings kindly — the sky was always heavy, like someone forgot to wring the sadness out of it overnight. Grey clouds pressed against tall buildings, and cold wind crept in through every corner like it owned the place.
Ziva yanked the sleeves of her sweater over her hands as she half-jogged down the icy sidewalk. She looked like a walking laundry basket: scarf too long, coat unbuttoned, mismatched socks inside scuffed boots. She didn't care. Well, maybe a little. But it was too early to care properly.
"God, I need coffee," she muttered, dodging a puddle and nearly walking into a guy with a briefcase.
"Watch it!" he barked.
She shot him a sunny, unapologetic smile. "You too, sweetie."
He muttered something that definitely wasn't sweetie, but Ziva was already on the next block, rounding a corner with the grace of a cartwheel gone wrong. Her destination loomed ahead — the Dresmoor Public Library. Her second home. Her sanctuary. And her job… which she was very close to being fired from.
Inside, it was warmer. Quieter. Smelled like old paper and lemon polish. Heaven, if your idea of heaven had flickering lights and a radiator that coughed more than it warmed.
"Nice of you to join us, Mace," said Georgia from the front desk, deadpan.
Ziva slid behind the counter, grinning. "The universe tested me this morning. But I won."
Georgia didn't even glance up. "It's 9:14."
"Victory takes many forms," Ziva said, shrugging out of her coat.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of stacking returned books, answering the same three questions over and over ("Where's the bathroom?", "Do you have Wi-Fi?", "Can I eat this muffin in here?"), and redirecting a very determined six-year-old away from the horror section.
During lunch break, she flopped into one of the beanbags in the staff room and texted her best friend:
ZIVA: tell me why i just got lectured by a ten-year-old for not knowing who some youtuber is
LIRA: because you're basically ninety
ZIVA: wow. rude. accurate. still rude.
LIRA: coffee later?
ZIVA: pls. save me from the books and the tweens
She smiled as she tucked her phone away. Lira was one of the few constants in her life — along with cracked phone screens, broken sleep schedules, and cheap instant noodles.
The rest of her shift dragged. The radiator died. The copier jammed. An old man swore at her because the microfilm machine wasn't working. Ziva just kept smiling, nodding, filing it all away under "normal."
By the time the sky turned from grey to near-black, she was on her way home — earbuds in, scarf pulled to her nose, eyes trained on the sidewalk ahead. She didn't feel watched. She didn't feel haunted. She just felt… tired.
Home was a shoebox apartment on the edge of the city's quieter district. One room, leaky windows, and a kettle that only worked if you stared at it hard enough. She kicked off her boots, flung her bag on the couch, and made herself a cup of tea that tasted vaguely like sadness.
Her reflection in the mirror looked back with raised brows. Frizzy curls, chapped lips, eyeliner half-surviving — "We tried," she told herself.
She didn't know what was coming.
But for now, Ziva Mace was just a girl. Working. Laughing. Living.
And that was enough.
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