Morning came the way it always did. Thin rain. Thin light. The alley smelled of wet metal and old cooking oil. Children ran barefoot through puddles. Their laughter scraped like knives.
Lira waited at the pipe. She stood on a loose brick and kept her balance while she filled a cracked bucket. Her hair stuck to her face. She looked at me and smiled like a thing that was too important to waste.
"You gonna help or stare?" she said.
I went and we worked together. The pipe sputtered and the water ran cold. Grey Rock had turned off the flow once this week already. People argued and no one changed the fact that the city kept more for those who lived in glass.
We carried the bucket back through alleys that smelled of smoke. A train growled above and a white symbol flashed on its side. People stopped and stared up as if the light could bless them. I looked away.
"Why do they live up there?" I asked.
"Because they can," Lira said. "Because they have no rain in their shoes."
Her laugh was small. She handed me a piece of bread and bumped my shoulder. For a second the cold dropped away.
When we passed the market the talk was about the child with no power. People said it like saying a storm name. "A sign," an old woman spat. "The gods are changing their minds." They meant the 365 when they said gods. They did not understand who kept their lights burning.
Later, a patrol drone hummed overhead and the guards fixed their visors at the edge of the alley. Their boots made good noise. They walked like they owned not only the streets but the right to be safe. People looked away.
I did not sleep that night. The dream came back. Water, deep and cold, moving like teeth. The voice called again. My hands glowed and then went dark. I thought about how small I was. The city thought it was careful. It was only patient.