You wake on a bench near the fish market with frost in your beard and a parking notice pinned to your coat, and for the fourth morning running the sky refuses you. Across the square, the chapel bell you are chained to in every way that matters hangs silent in its tower, and touching the tower door burns your hand like ice. A street thief is working the market crowd toward an old woman's purse, easy to stop, once, for someone who used to end wars. Thunder rolls far out over the sea, and it is not yours.