A streetcar rattled past, its bell clanging through the damp air. On the corner of Fulton Street and Flatbush Avenue, a few teenage boys were huddled around a newspaper, their breath fogging as they read the headlines aloud. Guadalcanal. The blackouts. Roosevelt's voice crackling over every radio in every parlor.

Inside Pete's Tavern, the war felt both close and far.

The place was packed. Off-duty soldiers in olive drab elbowed for space at the bar, their laughter too loud, their eyes too old. The jukebox in the corner was playing Glenn Miller, and the smoky air was thick with the smell of cheap beer, fried onions, and something floral that cut through — a woman's perfume.

At the edge of the room, near a crooked piano that hadn't been tuned in years, a woman was wiping down a table. She moved like she knew every scuffed floorboard and sticky patch, her movements economical, practiced. Dark hair, pinned up but stray curls escaping. A clean apron over a plain dress. A small leather bag on the bench beside her — not a purse, but something medical.

She looked up as three soldiers tumbled through the door, braying for whiskey, and her gaze flickered. It was the look of someone used to counting exits.

Then she saw him.

In the corner booth nearest the window, a young man sat with his elbows on the table, a sketchbook open in front of him. He was small — unnervingly small for the company he kept, shoulders too narrow for his coat, a jaw that looked like it had never been broken and maybe needed to be. But his hands were steady, and his eyes were blue and sharp, watching the room like he was memorizing every shadow.

At the bar, her hand stilled over a dirty glass. Her thumb pressed against the rim, whitening at the nail.