The morning was too still. Not the lazy kind of stillness that draped itself over warm mornings in this town, but the brittle kind — like glass just before it shatters.
Elira tightened her scarf around her shoulders and stepped outside.
The air bit at her cheeks with a clean cold sting. Somewhere down the street, a bicycle bell chimed once, sharp and lonely. She adjusted her pace, not entirely sure why she wanted to move quickly. The street wasn't noisy, but it was… occupied. Eyes lingered longer than usual. People's steps felt too purposeful.
Elira's shoulders tense without her realizing. Her fingers curled inside her pockets, knuckles brushing against the crumpled paper list of groceries she'd meant to buy. Tea. Bread. A few vegetables. Nothing that should have required her to keep her pulse steady.
She'd only planned to stop by the market and buy some grocery items needed.
She turned a corner and froze there for a good moment.
Across the road, the tattoo guy from the bookstore stood in the shadow of an awning, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched — but not from the cold. He wasn't reading this time. His gaze swept the street in short, precise arcs, like he was quietly mapping escape routes. Even from here, she could see the small muscle in his jaw flex as if he were grinding back words.
When his eyes found hers, something flickered across his face — recognition, yes, but with an edge, like he hadn't decided if her presence was a good thing.
He stepped off the curb and crossed toward her.
"Hey," he said, voice low, clipped but deliberately. It sounded less like a greeting and almost like a test — as if he wanted to make sure she was real, not a ghost from some other street.
"…Hi," she managed.
A pause stretched between them, filled only by the sound of a passing cart and the soft slap of a shop door closing.
"You always walk alone?" he asked.
She blinked. "Most of the time."
His gaze scanned the street again, as if checking for something she couldn't see. For half a second, his coat shifted — and she caught sight of a faint, dark smear along the cuff. Was it ink? Or dirt? Or Something else?
"Be careful." It was neither friendly nor unfriendly — just a statement.
Before she could respond, a voice called out from across the street.
"Rowan!"
The name sliced through the quiet.
The name came from across the street — an older man stood in a doorway, wiping his hands on a rag, brows raised in faint recognition.
The name landed with a strange weight.
Rowan's body went still. Not a startled stillness — more like the deliberate pause of someone deciding what to reveal and what to bury. A muscle in his jaw ticked once before he turned halfway toward the caller and raised a hand in a curt wave. A gesture that was too brief to be friendly.
Elira repeated the name silently in her head.Rowan.
By the time Elira found her voice again, she looked back at him, his gaze was already on her — unreadable.
"I'll see you around," he said, then stepped past her, his coat brushing against her sleeve as he moved toward a narrow alley where the daylight thinned into shadow.
The brittle stillness returned, pressing against her ribs — only now it had teeth.