Chapter 52 Whispers In The Market

• The cold was harsher than usual.
• Lucy pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, eyes narrowed against the sharp bite of wind. Her boots crunched over the frost-bitten ground as she made her way toward the makeshift market — a large, open lot surrounded by broken concrete walls and abandoned buildings. It opened every three days now, a fragile, desperate gathering for survivors who still had something left to trade.
• People moved like shadows, bundled in layers, faces hollow and wary. No one spoke unless they had to. Bartering was done in short, clipped exchanges, and every glance was sharp with suspicion. Lucy kept her head low, clutching a small bundle of handmade gloves she’d sewn from salvaged scraps of cloth and fur. They were a front, a reason to be here without raising questions.