The name lingered.
Elira woke later than she meant to, the pale light of morning spilling across her room in thin, slanted stripes. She lay there for a moment, not quite ready to move, her mind looping over the sound of it. Rowan. The way it had been called out in the street, casual but sharp enough to cut the air. The way he'd reacted — not startled, but pausing in that deliberate way, like someone weighing how much of himself to allow into daylight.
She found herself mouthing the name once under her breath. It felt heavier than it should for just two syllables.
Shaking it off, she got up and got ready for the day, wrapping her signature scarf around her shoulders. The air that met her outside was crisp, carrying the faint bite of autumn. The market wasn't far, just a short walk down the main road, but something in the air of this area usually makes her legs feel tight and her steps quick.
The street felt a little more noisy as compared to the other day and again a little occupied. A little too many eyes lingering as she passed. At the corner, two men leaned against a wall, not speaking, just… looking. Their gaze moved with her, unhurried. She dropped her eyes and walked on, Rowan's voice from yesterday — Be careful — threading uncomfortably through her mind.
By the time she reached the market square, she was grateful for the distraction of noise.
The vendors were already busy, their stalls spilling with late-season vegetables, baskets of pale yellow pears, glossy jars of pickles stacked in neat rows. She stopped at one stall where a woman with a red scarf arranged bunches of greens.
Elira pointed to the carrots, then held up three fingers. The woman nodded — and then handed her a sack of something entirely different. Pale radishes, long and fat, dirt still clinging to them.
Elira blinked, shook her head, and tried again, miming the motion of peeling a carrot. The vendor frowned, muttered something she couldn't follow, and reached for another bag of radishes.
"I'm sorry, no… not—" she began, but the woman was already holding out the bag, impatient. A few customers glanced over. Heat crept up Elira's neck.
Then, from somewhere behind her:"Carrots, not radishes, right Elira?"
The voice was warm, lightly teasing. She turned to find Caelum there, hands in his pockets, his familiar easy smile softening the moment. He stepped forward, exchanging a few quick words with the vendor in the local dialect. The woman laughed, shook her head, and finally set three neat carrots into Elira's basket.
"I think you were about to end up with three kilos of radishes," Caelum said, his eyes crinkling.
Relief tugged a small smile from her. "I was starting to think maybe I'd forgotten what carrots looked like."
"You're not the first. Auntie Mei likes to push what she has too much of." He picked up a big pear, weighed it in his hand, and set it into her basket without asking. "This one's on me. It's sweet this time of year."
They moved through the market together, his voice a low hum of conversation — telling her which stalls to avoid for overpricing, which baker's bread stayed soft for days. He carried a small cloth bag over one shoulder, stopping now and then to greet people. It struck her how at ease he seemed here, every smile returned, every nod familiar.
When they reached the bread stall, Caelum paid for a small round loaf and handed it to her."Grandma says no one should start the day on an empty stomach. She'd scold me if I didn't."
She accepted it with both hands. "Please thank her for me."
"I'll tell her when I drop by later. She's probably already baking something else to send your way."
By the time her basket was full, the weight in her chest had eased a little. Caelum's presence was like stepping into a warm patch of sunlight after standing in the cold too long — not something you noticed right away, but enough to thaw your shoulders.
At the edge of the market, he paused. "I should take these to the café. They'll wonder if I've run off with the milk again."
She laughed, and they parted with a casual wave. The warmth lingered for a few steps before something else crept back in.
Halfway down the quieter part of the street, she caught the sense of movement — a shadow gliding along the far wall. When she turned, it was gone. The air seemed sharper all of a sudden, the kind that pricked the back of your neck.
She told herself it was nothing. People walked in alleys all the time. She kept her pace steady until her building came into view.
The door to her apartment was shut, but there — just above the handle — a small folded scrap of paper was wedged between the frame and the wall. She pulled it free, the paper warm from the sun.
In plain block letters, written in what looked like pencil:"Don't stay out late. Don't walk alone."
No signature.
She stood there, the street humming faintly behind her, the note light as air in her hand but heavy as a stone in her chest. The name Rowan rose again, unbidden, and settled somewhere deep, pulsing like a second heartbeat.