The note wouldn't leave her alone.
Elira set it on the table, then the counter, then the windowsill—like moving it might make it less true. Don't stay out late. Don't walk alone. The block letters were plain, almost careful, as if whoever wrote them had tried not to leave a mark and somehow left one anyway.
She slid the slip of paper into her journal, not between the first pages or the last, but somewhere in the middle—where things weren't beginnings or endings yet.
Morning moved slowly. She made tea, forgot to drink it, reheated it, then drank it too fast. The quiet felt different now: not empty, but edged. She opened the back door to let in some air. A soft breeze eased through the frame and lifted the corner of a floor mat that had seen better years.
A knock came just as she was considering whether to fix the mat or ignore it.
"Come?" a voice called, gentle and unsure.
She opened the door to find Grandma Lu standing with a small, covered bowl, her bright scarf knotted carefully at the side. Caelum stood just behind her, hands in his pockets, a smile that looked like it had been set there by habit.
"Congee," Caelum said, lifting his chin toward the bowl. "She says you need warm food for strong days."
Grandma Lu said something, short and firm. Caelum translated with a grin, "And strong days need strong girls."
Elira laughed, the sound relieved and a little surprised at itself. "Please thank her. And tell her I… I slept. A little."
Grandma Lu patted Elira's shoulder, then pointed at the ceiling, mimed flicking a switch, and made a face.
"The light in your kitchen," Caelum said. "It flickers?"
"Sometimes," Elira admitted. "I was going to buy a bulb later."
"We can do it now," Caelum said. "If you're okay with that."
She hesitated—then stepped back and let them in.
It didn't take long. Caelum unscrewed the old bulb and replaced it with one from his small canvas bag. Grandma Lu stood watch as if protecting a ritual. When the new light came on steady and warm, something in Elira loosened.
"Better?" Caelum asked.
"Better," she said, and meant it.
They didn't stay long. Grandma Lu pressed the bowl of congee into Elira's hands one more time, said something that sounded like eat while it's warm, and shuffled out with a soft wave. Caelum followed, pausing at the door.
"Market later?" he asked. "I can point you to a place that sells decent tea for cheap."
"I'll go in a bit," she said. "Thank you. For… the light."
He shrugged, almost shy. "Grandma likes when the people near us can see."
When they were gone, the apartment felt less like a shell. Elira ate a few warm spoonfuls of congee, then packed her tote with the reusable bag and her list. She tucked the journal inside too, the note hidden in its spine like a small, stubborn truth. She told herself she'd be back before the evening.
The streets looked ordinary on the way to the market—laundry on lines, a scooter coughing at a corner, someone's radio spilling an old song into the open air. Even so, she crossed with care, listening for more than she could see.
She found Caelum waiting at the corner with his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, rocking slightly on his heels.
"You said you'd come," he said, with a half-grin.
"I did," she replied, matching his stride as they fell into step together.
The market at midday was brighter, less sharp than she expected. Caelum moved with an ease she envied, greeting vendors with nods, catching small jokes she couldn't follow but could feel in the way the sellers laughed. When she pointed uncertainly at bundles of greens, he leaned closer to explain their names, not in a showy way but like he was letting her in on a secret.
At one stall, the vendor spoke too fast, and Elira couldn't catch it clearly. She muttered a soft apology, fumbling the words. Caelum smoothly stepped in, translating with a patience that dissolved the tight knot in her chest.
"You'll get it," he said afterward, holding out a small bag of the tea she'd wanted. "It's just practice. And people here—most of them want you to stay long enough to practice."
It was simple, ordinary. But walking beside him, tote bags brushing now and then, Elira felt the quiet of the morning ease just a little.
When they parted ways, she lingered in the rows, letting herself slows. At the spice stall, she misread a sign and almost bought an entire bag of star anise instead of tea. The vendor corrected her with a patient smile. At another table, she pointed to ginger and was handed galangal instead; a younger vendor laughed and switched them without fuss. The kindness pressed at her eyes in a way that surprised her.
She moved slower after that, letting the ordinary be loud enough to drown out what-ifs.
At the end of the row, a hardware shop leaned into a narrow lane, its doorway stacked with plastic buckets and metal hooks. A hand-lettered sign promised bulbs, cords, tape. She hesitated, then stepped inside.
The shop smelled faintly of oil and dust. A man at the counter looked up, said something in the local language she couldn't follow, and pointed toward the back. Elira lifted the burnt bulb from her pocket, held it up, then mimed plugging a cord and pulling tape. He nodded, turned, and disappeared into a small forest of shelves.
While she waited, voices rose outside—sharp, overlapping, too close. A scooter clipped the doorway. Someone swore. Another voice tossed a laugh that didn't sound friendly. Elira stepped back instinctively, feeling for the edge of the counter behind her. The shop owner returned with a bulb and a roll of tape, set them down, then peeked past her at the street, his mouth flattening.
"It's okay," she said out loud, though no one had asked. She slid money across the counter with hands that wanted very much not to shake.
When she stepped outside, the lane had thinned but not cleared. Two men stood beside a stack of crates, their conversation low and curt. One of them glanced at her tote, then at her face. It wasn't a leer, exactly—just a kind of look that assumed she wouldn't know how to say no properly.
She kept walking.
"Hey," one called, in accented English. "You need help?"
"I'm fine," she said, already moving past.
The second man stepped half a pace into her path. Not blocking—just there. "We help. Cheap." His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"I said I'm fine." Elira didn't stop. She angled around him and felt the brush of his jacket against her sleeve.
A third voice came from the shade to her right, soft and flat as a river stone.
"She said she's fine."
The men turned. The one with the dry smile let it die.
Rowan leaned against the darker side of the wall, hands in his coat pockets, the butterfly near his ear a small echo of yesterday's light. He didn't move closer. He didn't have to. Something about the way he filled the space made the lane feel narrower for everyone but him.
A brief exchange followed in the local language, low and unhurried. Elira could catch just a few words, and she caught the shift. The men stepped back, muttered something that tried to sound casual, and drifted away like they hadn't meant to be there anyway.
Rowan didn't look at Elira for a breath or two. When he did, his gaze flicked to the hardware bag, then to the sky.
"Thought you'd read the note," he said.
"I did." She hated that her voice sounded defensive. "It's not late."
"It's late enough on this side." He nodded toward the narrowing lane, where the buildings leaned like they were holding each other up. "Corners make their own time."
"I needed a bulb." It sounded small even to her.
"Fair." He pushed off the wall. "Walk."
It wasn't a request, but it wasn't a threat either. He moved ahead of her by half a step, not close enough to be beside her, not far enough to be uninvolved. She matched his pace because not matching it would have felt like denying gravity.
They walked the length of the lane without speaking. At the wider street, he stopped and glanced toward the market, then toward the opposite direction—mapping exits again, she realized. Seeing edges. Seeing the places something could slip through.
"Why do you care?" The question left her before she'd finished deciding if it was wise.
He didn't answer right away. A scooter growled past. A child laughed somewhere above them; a curtain snapped shut.
When he finally spoke, it was like he'd tried on a dozen answers and discarded them all.
"This part of the map isn't kind to new names," he said. "That's all."
"Is that what I am? A new name?"
He almost smiled. Almost. "For now."
She didn't ask if the note was his. She didn't need to. He looked past her shoulder at something only he seemed to see, then took a step back, like the space had decided it wanted him gone again.
"Change your route home when you can," he said. "Don't make patterns. People who mean you harm like patterns."
Before she could tell him, she didn't have enough routes to make patterns, he was already moving away, slipping into a thin seam of shade between two buildings.
Back at her apartment, the light in the kitchen glowed steady and warm. She set the new bulb on the counter and laughed quietly at herself. She hadn't needed it after all. Not today.
Elira lit the vanilla candle and opened her journal. The note pressed into the spine made a soft ridge under the page. She wrote: "Some warnings feel like gifts wrapped in thorns." Then below it, smaller: "Edges are where you learn the shape of things."
Outside, a bicycle bell chimed once—sharp, then gone. Inside, the room held. Not perfect. Not safe. But hers, and a little brighter than morning.