The evening was colder than usual, a sharp, biting wind sweeping across the cobbled streets of Oxford. Evelyn pulled her coat tighter around her, the wool scratching against her skin, but it did little to stave off the chill. She walked briskly, her boots clicking against the stone pavement, a steady rhythm that almost drowned out the rush of her thoughts. The sun had long since disappeared, leaving only a faint glow in the sky as the stars began to prick through the deepening blackness.
She had been to Blackwell's Bookshop that evening, and though her shift had ended, the weight of the day's events seemed to cling to her as she made her way home. Her mind was filled with the strange encounter from earlier—an old man who had appeared at the shop just before closing, a man she had never seen before.
He had entered with a quiet dignity, though there was something unsettling about him—something hidden beneath the polite mask he wore. His gait had been slow, deliberate, and he leaned heavily on a cane, his movements careful but calculated. She hadn't paid him much attention at first. She was accustomed to all sorts of customers—eccentric scholars, quiet readers, the occasional curious tourist—but this man was different. There was an air of mystery about him that seemed to wrap around him like a fog.
He had asked for a specific book, a rare edition of Keats, which was odd enough on its own, but it wasn't the book that had unsettled Evelyn. It was his eyes.
She could not describe them exactly—only that they seemed… off. As if something about them wasn't entirely real. His gaze was piercing, cold, and yet… strangely empty. And then there was the scent that lingered in the air after he had left—lavender and tobacco. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was unmistakable, almost too clean, like the lingering trace of a presence that had been there longer than it should have.
Her steps faltered as she crossed the road, the memory of the encounter weighing heavily on her. It was the eyes that troubled her most. There was something about them that she couldn't shake. Something that made her feel as though she was being watched, studied, even when he was no longer there.
It had been hours since he had left, but Evelyn still couldn't rid herself of the feeling of unease that had settled deep in her chest. What did he want? Why had he come to the bookshop, and why did he seem so intent on speaking to her? She had tried to brush it off, to tell herself that it was nothing more than an old man with eccentric tastes. But the truth was, she couldn't stop thinking about him.
As she reached the alleyway behind the bookshop, Evelyn's heart skipped a beat. There, standing in the shadows just ahead, was the man with the cane.
He was looking directly at her, his posture unnervingly still. He hadn't seen her yet, but she could feel his gaze, sharp and heavy, pressing into her. A strange sense of dread crawled up her spine, and her breath caught in her throat. She had been foolish to leave the shop so late, to walk home alone. Something told her that she was not supposed to see him again, that whatever was happening—whatever had been set in motion—was not meant for her to witness.
Her mind raced as she tried to make sense of it. The man with the cane had come to the shop looking for something—perhaps a piece of information, or perhaps something more. She had to know. She had to understand why he had been there. There was a secret in that bookshop, in those eyes, that she could not leave unexplored.
With every step she took, the man seemed to melt further into the shadows, his form barely distinguishable from the darkness that surrounded him. She was aware of her every breath now, her heartbeat thumping in her chest, louder than the distant sounds of the evening. And still, he remained there, unmoving, like some ancient statue carved from shadow and stone.
Evelyn knew she had to face him.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the scarf around her neck, pulling it tighter. The red scarf—the one Margaret had given her—was a constant reminder of everything she had lost, everything that she could lose. She wasn't sure why she wore it tonight, why she clung to it as though it held some kind of power, but in that moment, it felt like a small, fragile shield.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward, making her way toward the alley. Her feet carried her closer to the man, and with each step, the silence grew heavier, pressing against her ears. She could hear his cane tapping softly against the stone, the rhythmic sound like a ticking clock, marking the passage of time.
The man finally spoke, his voice low and cold, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"I've been waiting for you, Evelyn."
The words hit her like a shock, and she stopped in her tracks. How did he know her name? She had never seen him before, never spoken to him outside of the brief encounter in the shop. Yet somehow, he knew exactly who she was.
She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. The air felt thick, suffocating, as though something unseen was pushing down on her chest.
"Who are you?" she managed to whisper, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to remain composed.
The man didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his cane scraping against the ground with a chilling finality. Evelyn took a step back, instinctively putting distance between them, but he was too quick. In one smooth motion, he reached out, his hand brushing against her arm. The touch was cold—unnaturally so—and it sent a shiver down her spine.
"You've been marked," he said, his voice now barely above a whisper, as though the very air between them had become thick with secrecy. "You and Margaret. It was always meant to be this way."
Evelyn's breath caught in her throat. Margaret. The name felt like a jolt, a wake-up call to something she had been avoiding, something she had buried deep inside. The connection, the bond she shared with Margaret, had always been more than she had allowed herself to admit. But now, hearing the man's words, everything seemed to fall into place. Everything she had feared was suddenly within reach.
"Marked?" she asked, her voice cracking as she struggled to understand. "What do you mean?"
The man's lips curled into a smile, though there was no warmth in it—only the cold gleam of knowledge, of something that lay just beyond her grasp.
"You're not safe, Evelyn," he said. "Neither of you were. But there is still time. If you act quickly, you may yet have a chance to escape the truth."
And with that, the man with the cane turned and disappeared into the night, leaving Evelyn standing alone in the alley, her heart pounding in her chest.
She didn't know what to make of his words. She didn't know who he was or what he wanted. But one thing was certain—he was connected to everything that had been happening. The mystery surrounding Margaret's death, the strange events in the bookshop, and now, this man who had somehow crossed into her life, leaving her with more questions than answers.
As Evelyn stood there in the darkness, the weight of his words settled heavily in her mind. She had been marked. And soon, she would have to face whatever that meant.