The day began with rain. Not the hard, violent kind, but the slow, stubborn drizzle that made everything look muted, as though someone had taken an eraser to the sharp edges of the city. Elira sat by her small kitchen table, watching droplets run crooked races down the windowpane while her laptop hummed faintly.
The screen was open to a job board she was trying hard to understand by translating every bit of it. She clicked on one listing, skimmed the requirements, and closed it again with a sigh.
Her tea had gone cold. She hadn't even noticed drinking it.
A knock rattled her front door lightly. When she opened it, Caelum stood there, hood pulled up against the drizzle, one hand clutching a paper bag.
"Breakfast," he said, holding it out. "Grandma made too much flatbread again."
Elira smiled, accepting the still-warm bag. "Thank her for me. She's trying to keep me fed every day, isn't she?"
Caelum grinned. "That's her way of saying she likes you. She feeds the people she trusts."
Elira gestured for him to come in. He pulled his hood back, drops scattering onto the mat, and glanced at the open laptop on her table.
"Job hunting?"
"Still trying," Elira admitted, scratching forehead with her index fingernail "It feels like the listings are written in code. I don't even know where to start."
Caelum stepped closer, peering at the screen. "Let's do this together, I'll be your translator"
They sat side by side at the table, the paper bag between them, the smell of flatbread softening the air. Caelum leaned forward, reading aloud one posting slowly, breaking it down. "Okay—this one says they want someone part-time, mornings only, basic admin work. But they also ask for local references. That could be hard."
Elira sighed, the sound carrying more weight than she meant it to. "How do I get references if I'm new here? It feels like being locked out of a house without windows."
Caelum tapped his fingers against the table thoughtfully. "Not every door is locked. Some just need a polite knock. Look—here's one in English. Private tutoring, conversational practice. You could do that, right?"
She hesitated. "Maybe. But what if they expect me to be… better? More qualified?"
He gave her a sideways smile. "Elira, you're already better than half the teachers I had. You're patient. And you explain things in a way that makes sense. That's rare."
Her cheeks warmed despite the gray morning. "You make it sound easier than it is."
"That's because you only see the mountain," Caelum said softly. "I see the steps."
They worked for another hour, making a list of possible jobs—half crossed out for now, half underlined to revisit. Caelum pulled out a small notebook from his jacket pocket and sketched a rough schedule. "If we try two applications a day, by next week you'll have sent more than ten. That's a good start. I'm here whenever you need."
Elira studied the page. The neat columns, the little arrows, the times penciled in with care. It felt less like a plan and more like a rope, something solid to hold while the ground shifted beneath her.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I don't think I'd… keep going without this."
Caelum shrugged, almost embarrassed. "We all need someone to lean on. Grandma says even trees lean on the wind."
For a while, the weight in her chest lightened. They ate the flatbread together, laughing when it tore unevenly, and the rain outside softened to a mist. By the time Caelum left, promising to return the next day with more listings, Elira felt steadier. Not safe, not certain, but steadier.
By late afternoon, she needed fresh air. She wrapped her scarf tight and stepped outside, keeping the folded schedule by Caelum in her pocket. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and glistening, the air heavy with the smell of wet stone.
The market was thinner today—just a few stalls, vendors packing up early. She bought some ginger, a small packet of rice, exchanged careful words she half-mangled but were accepted with patient nods. For a moment, she thought: maybe I can belong here after all.
She was almost home when it happened.
At the bend near the alley, she caught the faint scrape of footsteps that weren't hers. Not hurried. Not careless. Just there.
Elira's pulse skipped. She slowed, then quickened again, telling herself she was imagining it. When she dared a glance over her shoulder, the street looked empty—just shuttered windows and the glow of a neon sign two doors down.
But the silence felt weighted.
She turned the corner quickly, her breath catching, and almost collided with someone.
"Careful," a voice said. Low. Calm. Familiar.
Rowan stood half in shadow, hands tucked into his coat pockets, gaze scanning not her but the street behind her. The faint light caught the ink near his ear, the butterfly sharp against his skin.
Elira swallowed. "You—"
"You're late," he said, cutting her off. Not angry. Just fact. "Didn't I tell you this side changes after dark?"
"It's not dark yet," she muttered.
He gave the street another look before meeting her eyes. "Dark enough."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wet cobblestones glistened, catching the dim light in fractured patterns. Somewhere far away, a dog barked once, then fell silent.
Rowan stepped aside, giving her space to pass. His presence filled the narrow bend like a warning written in flesh.
"Keep your schedule," he said quietly, nodding toward the folded paper peeking from her pocket. "But keep your eyes sharper."
And then he was gone again, melting into the alley's shadow as though the drizzle itself had erased him.
Elira hurried the rest of the way home, her heart loud in her chest.
Back at her desk, she spread Caelum's neat schedule beside her journal. Two different kinds of anchors, she thought. One built of kindness, the other carved from caution. She wasn't sure yet which one would keep her standing—only that she might need both.