The ones who arrive late are never empty-handed.
They don't rush.
They don't announce.
They study what survived before deciding how to touch it.
I felt them before I saw them—not in the city's rhythm, but in the pauses between it. The half-second where conversations slowed. The way habitual paths bent slightly, like grass pressed down by something heavier than footsteps.
Arjun noticed the shift at the transit stop.
"New faces," he said quietly.
"Not officials."
"No," I replied.
"And not locals."
The girl watched a trio standing apart from the flow—too still, too patient. They weren't observing the crowd. They were observing patterns.
"They're measuring," she said.
"Yes," Aaryan agreed.
"And they didn't need permission to be here."
✦
Late arrivals don't claim ground.
They test ownership of momentum.
One of them stepped forward—casual, well-dressed, posture open. He spoke to a volunteer arranging chairs, not demanding, not correcting.
