The morning crept cautiously through Johanna Weber’s flat – a timid light crept along the edges of the curtains, casting pale streaks on the floor. It smelled of paper, old wood and the last remnants of coffee from the night before. Jo, as she was simply called, stood barefoot in the kitchen, stirring a cup of cold mocha, more out of habit than enjoyment. Newton had curled up on the armchair, a ball of wool with ears. The world was still quiet, as if it wanted to give her time. Jo stopped in the hallway, the mug in her hand. Her grandmother’s antique mirror hung crookedly above the chest of…