She didn't mention the scarf to anyone.
Not to Claire, who would've turned it into a joke. Not to Eva, who would've turned it into a spiritual sign. And definitely not to Sanyu, who had already made herself too comfortable in her heart for something so unexplainable.
Instead, she folded it. Tucked it at the bottom of her backpack. And told herself maybe it wasn't hers. Maybe someone else just had the same pattern. Maybe the edges weren't exactly the same. Maybe memory was the liar.
But then came the gloves.
They were sitting on the back counter of the bookstore when she arrived for her shift — black leather, soft, clearly expensive, with small initials stitched into the inside lining in a script she didn't recognize. No one claimed them. No one saw who left them. They just appeared. Like the scarf. Like a ghost with manners.
She asked the owner, Mr. Debrowski, but he only shrugged. "Lost and found," he said. "Take them if no one asks."
She didn't take them. But she didn't leave them either. She just stared. Long enough that the letters on the inside began to blur. Long enough to realize the lining was gold.
The next day, they were gone.
That night, she sat with Sanyu in the tiny park near the tram stop. The cold was sharp, but they didn't care. They shared roasted peanuts from a greasy paper bag and made fun of couples who walked like they were acting in slow-motion romance films.
"Can I ask you something?" she said suddenly.
Sanyu nodded, mouth full.
"Do you ever feel like… someone's watching you, but they're not doing it to scare you?"
Sanyu stopped chewing.
She didn't laugh.
Instead, she wiped her fingers on her jeans, tilted her head, and said, "Yes. Once. When I was sixteen. He used to wait outside my school for months. Never said anything. Just… stared. Like he was trying to memorize my face."
"What did you do?"
"I moved schools. He found me again after two months."
She paused.
"I stopped smiling in public for a year after that."
They didn't say much after that. Just watched the streetlights flicker in and out of rhythm and listened to the tram rumble in the distance.
When she got home that night, she found a small envelope on her pillow. Claire wasn't home. The door had been locked. The windows closed.
Inside the envelope was a photo.
Of her.
Asleep.
In the café.
Head on the counter, arms folded. Her scarf draped over her shoulder. A cup still steaming beside her. She didn't even remember falling asleep. She didn't even remember the moment being real.
But someone had seen it.
And worse — someone had been close enough to take it.
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