Niah's POV
The morning clung to her like wet wool—thick and suffocating, the kind of heaviness that made each blink an effort. Like surfacing from deep water only to find the air itself had weight.
She moved through the motions, her hair tugged into submission with half-hearted strokes, tea abandoned at the windowsill where it wept condensation onto the wood. The dream clung to her ribs with sticky persistence, rain hissing against hot stone, the acrid bite of smoke, her mother's voice fraying at the edges like burnt parchment.
She had tried not to think about it the moment she opened her eyes, but the memory slithered in anyway, a whisper every time her breath hitched. It was harder to pretend it was just a dream when everything about it felt known.
When her reflection looked just a little too much like someone else. But she had work to do.
She wrapped her coat tightly, pulled her scarf higher than needed, and stepped out into the crisp quiet of Eldermere.
The chapel was the same as ever, with its old stone walls half-hidden by ivy, and the faint smell of ash still clinging to the walls. Inside, though, things felt more orderly. Dust, ink, parchment. Dr. Elira Thorne's sharp voice welcomed her from behind a table already piled higher than Niah had anticipated.
"Good Morning. Feeling better?" Elira didn't bother to look up, as if she sensed something was off.
Niah nodded. "Yeah. Just… a long night."
"Yeah, that happens to the best of us," Elira replied, her tone softening. "Today's mostly about filing. The parish family registries, nothing too exciting, but necessary. And there's someone else working in the same wing. Try not to let him distract you."
That caught Niah off guard. "Someone else?"
"Zaire Castellan," Elira said, still focused on her work. "He's the archivist for the council. You might have seen him around."
Niah felt a strange twist in her stomach.
Of course. The universe definitely had a warped sense of humor.
By the time she entered the lower records room, the air had that familiar smell of old ink mixed with the distinct scent of worn leather and paper dust. There were two desks in the room. One was neatly arranged, complete with a labeled tray and a lamp already glowing.
The other—
Zaire Castellan sat there, fingers ink-stained and eyes sharp under the soft light, poring over a fragile old ledger as if it held the universe's secrets. His coat lay casually draped over the chair, sleeves rolled up.
Niah hesitated in the doorway.
He didn't look up. "You tend to hover, you know?"
She let out a slow breath. "I work here now."
Zaire turned a page, clearly unimpressed. "What a tragedy."
Niah rolled her eyes and marched past him with determination, heading straight for the other table. "Don't talk to me."
"I didn't."
"Good. Let's keep it that way."
That was followed by silence, just for a blissful two minutes.
Then he said, "You smell like anxiety."
Niah spun around, shocked. "What?!"
Zaire shrugged and kept flipping pages. "It's a distinct scent. Subtle notes of existential dread and unresolved emotional trauma."
Niah stared, speechless. "I just got here."
Zaire continued turning pages, completely unfazed. "Exactly."
She opened her mouth, but all that came out was an outraged sound.
He finally glanced at her, and there it was, the maddening glimmer in his eyes.
Just… watching.
Niah huffed dramatically as she sat at her desk. "You're impossible."
"And yet here we are."
Despite herself, Niah couldn't help but smile a little. What an idiot.
The work went on slowly after that. They filed pages, cross-referenced dates, and found themselves in small, muttered debates about handwriting and margins. They didn't chat much more after that, but there was a strange ease in the silence, a rhythm they hadn't expected.
By the end of the afternoon, their desks were closer than when they'd started, her notes spilling onto his occasionally. The silence felt less awkward, and more… shared.
Maybe, just maybe, they weren't strangers anymore.
As they packed up for the day, they didn't say another word, just exchanged a few lingering glances, the kind that felt like an unfinished thought. Outside, the mist hung in the air, and Niah stepped away with damp shoulders and a tightness in her chest that she didn't want to think about.