Mireille Kloeter scrunched up her fists and held them tightly against her chest. It wasn't because she was particularly nervous, anxious for the day ahead or just barely struggling to hold back her tears of groundless distress — is what she told herself. No, rather, she was just calmly and methodologically recalling the contents of the many textbooks in her travelling bag. That's why she had eyes closed, too. To focus. And also why she was mumbling to herself in an unbroken chant.

“. . . My name is Mireille Kloeter. I'm pleased to meet you. You can rely on me for the year ahead . . . My name is Mireille Kloeter. I'm pleased to meet you. You can rely on me for the year ahead . . .”

She was good at lying to herself.

Incidently, she was also good at pressing new clothes. Exceptional, even. Her uniform was so crisp that her skirt had refused to bend when she initially sat down. Even now, she could feel the hem resolutely digging into her thighs. Poor uniform. It was the only thing more stiff than she was.

A short burst of chimes brought her to her senses, followed by a crackling above her left ear.

“This is the North Line Rapid Service to Imperial Plaza, calling at Carnelian District, Eudialyte District, Amber District West, Jade District. We are now approaching Carnelian District.”

Mireille did her utmost to exhale her myriad of worries away. She then opened her eyes and faced the windows beside her.

Her wispy bangs were partially reflected in the glass, the strands curling whichever way they wanted. She ignored them. Even if her uniform was battered into submission, her hair was a battle she'd long surrendered to. What she paid attention to were the last vestiges of Garnet District streaming by, an indistinguishable blur of burnt bricks and red granite mouldings, with the exception of the old parapets peeking between the rooftops. They were just a solid grey. An unending brush of dullness from one end of the district to the next.

Mireille was thankful. Grey was good. Dull was good.

Settling back into her seat, she clasped her hands together in her lap.

And then, she whispered a short prayer.

But not for herself.

“. . . I hope she's doing okay.”

Mireille opened her palms. A silver bracelet twinkled up at her.