The whisper hadn't been a dream.
I knew it before my eyes opened. The sound of it clung to the walls of my mind—soft, ragged, the way Rafael's voice used to sound when he spoke my name in the dark.
The room was grey with dawn. Curtains trembled in a thin sea breeze that smelled of rain and salt. I sat up fast, heart slamming against my ribs. The inn was silent, but it wasn't an empty silence; it was listening.
"Rafael?" My voice barely reached the doorway.
Nothing answered except the sigh of wood shifting under my feet.
I pulled on my boots and grabbed the small flashlight from my bag. The hall outside was narrow, lined with crooked pictures. Each step sent a faint creak echoing ahead of me, as if someone were moving just out of sight.
I followed the sound down the stairs, through the lobby where last night's fire had burned itself to ash. The front door was ajar. Cold mist pressed against it like a ghost trying to get in.
