Ursula Street

A narrow residential lane in Battersea, London, lined with closely packed terraced houses. The street runs in a gentle curve, its pavement showing patches of worn brick and scattered autumn leaves swirling in the damp morning air. The houses, their facades a mix of peeling paint and well-maintained brickwork, rise three stories with narrow front gardens enclosed by wrought-iron railings. Tegan’s aunt’s home stands midway down the block, its red brick exterior softened by a climbing ivy that struggles against the London chill. The street’s quiet is broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional clatter of a passing bin lorry, the usual rhythms of urban life oddly comforting amid the day’s mounting strangeness.