Dawn.
On the balcony, the flowering crabapples exposed their tender, red leaves, glistening with sweet dew, their branches enticing the early-rising insects.
The pine trees in the community lazily stretched their needles. Just yesterday, they were thoroughly watered and, shielded by the surrounding buildings from wind and basking fully in the rain, they still liked to show off their needle-like shapes, as if to pretend they were in the wild, enduring heroes of cold and drought.
The homeowners, burdened with mortgages, walked briskly in their suits and leather shoes; they needed to set out before the morning rush to avoid being late.
A man in a dirty jacket, with bloodshot eyes and a limp, was walking against the tide of people, passing through the shadows of the pine trees, beyond the field of crabapples, and into the building at the center of the community.
Living room.
Thin wisps of blue smoke were already rising.
