Kayli closes her eyes at the bus stop and steps into the city. She needs it now, needs the cobblestone square where the fountain runs clear and no one asks her questions. But a hand grabs her shoulder. Her eyes snap open. The bus driver stares at her, annoyed. She misses her stop. The bus lurches away. She stands on a street corner she doesn't recognize, rocking forward and back on her heels. Three times forward. Three times back. She tries the city again but a car horn splits the scene in half. Her fingers trace circles on her palm. Eight circles. Then eight more. A woman in a suit watches from across the street, frowning at the rocking, the hand motions, the way Kayli's lips move without sound. The woman pulls out her phone. Kayli walks fast, searching for somewhere quiet, somewhere that makes sense. Two blocks down she finds it: a small playground, empty in the afternoon heat. The swing hangs from a thick branch, wooden seat worn smooth. No name carved into it, but it doesn't matter. She sits and pushes off, eyes closed, counting the arc. Forward and back. Forward and back. The rhythm steadies her enough to slip through. The city opens. But when she opens her eyes again, the woman in the suit is standing at the fence, phone still raised, filming. Kayli stops the swing. She can't prove what's real when the proof only exists behind her eyelids.