The biting New York wind whipped around Rosaline, making her shiver despite her meager layers. She fumbled with the key to her new apartment, the cold numbing her fingers. Inside, the air was only marginally warmer, the faint hum of the inefficient heater doing little to stave off the chill.

She tossed her keys onto the cracked counter, her eyes scanning the dismal space – a single room serving as both kitchen and bedroom, a cramped bathroom that felt like a closet. The stained carpet, chipped walls, and lingering memory of a monstrous bug made her stomach churn.

Another failed job interview. This was her fifth, and desperation gnawed at her. Tears pricked her eyes, but she blinked them back. "Now was not the time to cry," she murmured, the words tasting like ash.

Her parents were gone, her savings dwindling, and the memory of the Los Angeles shooting, the bullet graze on her side, a phantom ache. "If I had just closed the bookshop early," she whispered, running a hand through her oily hair, the rose charms on her bracelet clinking softly. "But that Rosaline didn't exist anymore. This Rosaline needed to stay clear of any trouble."

She microwaved instant ramen, the meager meal doing little to warm her. Later, curled tightly in her worn pajamas and heavy jacket on the uncomfortable mattress, she closed her eyes, wishing for the warmth of the California sun, not the cold reality of a New York night.