A voice drifted from the second-floor window of a narrow brownstone—low, clear, achingly familiar, though no one on the street could place why. It was a melody without words, a hum that seemed to smooth the rough edges of the city noise.

An elderly man paused mid-step on the sidewalk, his grocery bag sagging in his grip. He stood there a moment too long, listening, his shoulders loosening as if a weight had slipped off them.

Inside, the room was modest. A kettle steamed on the stove. Books stacked in neat towers by the window. And at the center of it all, Y/n sat by the sill, humming without realizing it, fingers resting against the glass as if searching for something just beyond reach.