A/N: Welcome to my new drabbles series! Just short, quick ideas and prompts that found themselves into my head during some sleepless nights that come hand in hand with the irritation of readjusting into a time zone.
EDIT: This drabble has replaced the previous chapter. I think it serves better as a first in a series. Eh. You decide.
Brownstone
The Brownstone existed as little more than a building in a plethora of buildings. New Olympia was not a city of landmarks, and if it was, the Brownstone wouldn't be one of them. The people living in it weren't any different.
Neighbours knew there was something strange about the seven teenagers and the woman who lived under that roof. The rumour mill churned out a new story each week, and gossip weaved through doorsteps in whispers. They were vagabonds, they were orphans, drug dealers, gang members, spies… the list never ended. But gossip didn't make them famous; it didn't make them landmarks.
And what they actually were, as seven teenagers, seemed petty compared to their neighbours. Mr Thompson down the street had battled cancer, and Beatrice Smith two streets over was a poet in the making. Not that anyone else knew. Certainly not the mystery teens in the diminutive Brownstone, too caught up in their own secrets and fate to notice. Certainly not the rest of the neighbourhood. Certainly not the rest of New Olympia.
There were thousands of households throughout the city and there was something happening in all of them. There was some kind of story in each, but self-contained. No one else knew. No one else cared.
