On another rooftop, under a sky where neon had been replaced by early blue, Mara and Julian smoked something like a cigarette and laughed at nothing. He had a small scar on his knuckle he’d never noticed before; she traced it with a fingertip like reading a map. They didn’t promise forever—there was no need. Instead they promised to make small beautiful things and hide them where the world might find them when it wanted to.