The wind has teeth tonight. It slaps the chiffon of Maja’s dress against her legs. The skyline is a jagged necklace—glass and salt and the neon pulse of Ravenport’s waterfront. String lights tremble above the rooftop bar. Phones lift like black moths. Someone near the DJ craps out an "aww" before the camera angle catches what matters: a white train, a pair of heels, and Maja Atkinson’s profile at the edge. Elisa’s heel slips. It’s the smallest thing, ordinary in a city full of surveillance: a heel, a gust, a momentary miscalculation. In the version she remembers—because she remembers two versions now—that small thing finishes everything. The rooftop is screaming and gaping and there’s a long, hot second where the sky opens and her bones think another life will start. Then there was nothing. Now there’s a hiccup of air, a shallow, impossible inhale. She is falling and then she isn’t. Her knees find the coarse rooftop underlay. The taste of copper is in her mouth. Her dress—because someone made her wear something ridiculous for a wedding she tried to avoid—snags on a scrap of rebar. Hands—bridesmaids, bartenders—grab, fingers like clamps. A phone smacks her ear; somebody is live, streaming the moment with a hand that does not steady. She looks up and sees Maja at the ledge, white against the auburn sky, backlit and luminous. The bride’s face is not the curated image