Daylight made things feel simpler.
That was what I told myself as I walked through the market, the air alive with music, laughter, and the smell of food drifting from every direction. People moved easily around us, hands full, lives in motion. It felt… normal.
Daniel walked beside me, relaxed in a way I hadn't seen before. No shadows. No quiet intensity weighing every word. Just small smiles and casual observations, like this was something we did every weekend.
"You come here often?" I asked.
"Not lately," he said. "But I used to."
There was something deliberate in the way he said used to, but I let it pass.
We wandered from stall to stall, sharing snacks, laughing over ridiculous souvenirs, occasionally bumping shoulders when the crowd thickened. It was easy. Comfortable. The kind of ease that made me forget how new this still was.
At one stall selling spices and dried herbs, Daniel stopped abruptly.
The vendor — an older man with sharp eyes — looked up and then stilled.
For a second, they just stared at each other.
Then the man frowned slightly. "Daniel…?" he said, hesitant. "Daniel West?"
Daniel's shoulders tightened.
"No," he said smoothly. "Just Daniel."
The vendor studied him, clearly unconvinced. "You look just like—"
"I think you're mistaken," Daniel interrupted, still polite but firm.
The man raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry. My mistake."
Daniel nodded, thanked him, and gently steered me away.
We walked in silence for several steps.
"Friend of yours?" I asked lightly.
He shook his head. "Someone who knew me a long time ago."
Before I could ask anything else, he added, "I was different then."
I didn't press. Something told me not to.
Instead, we ducked into a small bookshop tucked between two stalls, the noise of the market fading behind us. The air smelled of paper and dust, calm and familiar.
Daniel moved through the shelves like he belonged there.
"You seem at home," I said.
"I like places where people leave parts of themselves behind," he replied. "Books do that."
I smiled. "That might be the most honest thing you've said all day."
He glanced at me, a slow smile forming. "Careful. I might take that as encouragement."
We stood close in a narrow aisle, the quiet thick with unspoken things. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the world didn't exist.
When we stepped back outside, he draped his jacket over my shoulders without asking.
"You'll get cold," he said.
"I'm fine," I protested, but I kept it anyway.
Later, as the afternoon wore on, his phone buzzed more than once. Each time, he ignored it. Each time, something in his expression hardened — just briefly.
When it was time to leave, we hugged — warm, familiar, lingering.
"I had a good time," he said.
"So did I."
He left first.
I walked a few steps before realizing his jacket was still around my shoulders.
Smiling, I slipped it off — and something fell from the pocket.
A folded piece of paper.
I picked it up, hesitating only a moment before unfolding it.
It wasn't a receipt.
It was an old note.
One line, written in a firm, unfamiliar hand:
"You can't keep running, West. You know where to find me."
My stomach dropped.
West.
I folded the note slowly, my heart pounding.
Who was Daniel West?
And why did it feel like I was standing at the edge of something I didn't understand yet?
⸻