When a city forgets how to breathe, neighbors build habits. On the unceded territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish), and səlilwətaɬ (Tsleil-Waututh) peoples, Mira—an unflappable first-aid responder—keeps rooms small: water, a chair, a breath. Cal learns the quiet engineering of labels, benches, and exits that welcome people back to themselves. Leah insists on names spoken accurately, Priya shields good ideas from bureaucracy's appetite, and Jin—armed with painter's tape—turns puddles and crowd edges into "corners" that don't collide.

Together they map the city's Where to Breathe—benches, washrooms, shade, and the low-sensory routes that make public space gentler. Lantern nights stay unbranded. Photos are by consent. Welcomes are invited, paid, and never performed. In the background: grief that doesn't ask for applause, a bench with a modest plaque, and a slow, careful love that chooses small over spectacle.

Told in warm, precise chapters and anchored in community care, Inside Line is a quiet novel about how ordinary mercy—chairs near doors, names spoken right, habits that hold—can change the way a city lives.