High Ground

Found a route up the timber chair leg to the windowsill. Good elevation. The glass pane was cool against my shoulder, beaded with moisture on the far side. Down below, the wet pavement lay open to my line of sight—pedestrians under dark umbrellas, tyres cutting slow tracks through the street. I braced against the wooden frame, crouched low, and clocked the movement along the perimeter. Clean sightlines across the block. No immediate threats. I held the high ground.