The morning air tastes like cold metal as Lorean and I step outside, the door clicking shut behind us. A thin fog clings to the street, curling around the lampposts like pale fingers reluctant to let go of the night. Our boots crunch over gravel as we begin the familiar walk toward town.
Lorean hums under her breath—a soft, wandering tune she makes up as she goes. It drifts in and out of the stillness, the closest thing to music our mornings ever get.
I watch her from the corner of my eye.
Her hair, still a little wild.
Her half-buttoned collar.
The shadow of childhood still clinging to her even as life keeps trying to tear it away.
Guilt presses into my ribs.
I want her to have more than this.
More than responsibility.
More than fear.
More than me desperately trying—and failing—to play the part of sister and parent all at once.
But thinking about that won't make today any easier.
"Do you have everything?" I ask as we reach the corner.
She pats her bag. "Notebooks, pencils, lunch. You?"
"My manuscript pages," I say. "And the rent notice."
She winces. "Maybe he forgot."
"He didn't forget."
The landlord never forgets.
We turn onto Main Street. Shops begin cracking open their doors, letting out brief wafts of baking bread, old paper, and the dusty scent of early dawn commerce. People emerge in slow trickles—rubbing their hands together, muttering to themselves, hurrying along as if the morning might slip away before they can catch it.
It feels like just another day.
But the unease in my chest—the whispering tension—grows stronger with every step.
At the center of town, the Market Square is beginning to stir. The fountain in the middle burbles lazily, sending ripples across the stone basin. Vendors open their stalls, arranging fruit and pastries with sleepy movements.
And that's when I see him.
At first, I think he's part of the fog—just another shadow drifting along the edge of the square. But then he steps forward, and he is unmistakably real.
An old man.
Older than anyone I've ever seen up close.
His back crooked like a question mark.
His coat long and frayed at the edges.
His hair a silver-white tangle that looks like it hasn't felt a comb in years.
But it's his eyes that stop me.
Bright, startlingly clear, the color of storm clouds lit from within.
He's staring at me.
Not looking around.
Not glancing in my direction.
Staring. Directly. At. Me.
Lorean bumps my elbow.
"Why'd you stop?"
"I…"
I don't have an answer.
The old man lifts a hand—slowly, deliberately—and beckons.
Not to both of us.
To me.
My heart stutters.
A cold breeze slides down my spine though the air is still.
Lorean follows my gaze and stiffens.
"Do you know him?"
"No."
"Then don't go over there."
But my feet have already shifted. There's something magnetic about him, something that pulls at the edges of my thoughts like an invisible thread.
"I'll be two seconds," I murmur.
"Wren…" Her voice is small. Worried.
I swallow hard. "I promise."
When I step toward him, the sounds of the square seem to dim—as if someone has draped the world in a thicker layer of fog. Each step feels heavier, like the air has turned to water.
The old man watches me with a kind of quiet urgency, his gaze flicking over my face as though studying the shape of a memory.
When I'm close enough, he speaks.
"Child," he rasps, voice like crumpled parchment. "You look just like her."
My breath catches.
"Like who?"
"Your mother."
Everything inside me goes still.
He nods faintly. "You have her posture. Her stubbornness in the jaw. Even her way of walking—forward, always forward, even when the world tries to drag you back."
My stomach twists.
"How did you know her?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he takes a trembling step closer and whispers:
"You need to find the book."
My pulse jumps painfully.
"What book?"
"The one your parents hid. The one that belongs to you now."
I stare at him, heart thudding hard enough to bruise bone.
"I don't understand—"
"You will."
His voice softens.
"But you must hurry. The balance is shifting. The ink between worlds is thinning. And he—"
His eyes sharpen, haunted.
"—he has already sensed that the pages have begun to stir."
I feel the world tilt.
A cold bloom of dread unfurls in my chest.
"He… who?"
The old man reaches into his coat and pulls out a small, twisted object—a thin silver bookmark shaped like a feather, its metal worn smooth.
He presses it into my palm.
"Find the book," he repeats. "Before he finds you."
A wind rushes through the square—sudden and sharp—and when I blink…
…he's gone.
Simply gone.
Vanished into the thinning fog.
I stand frozen, the silver feather cold against my skin, the breath locked in my throat.
Lorean runs up beside me, grabbing my sleeve.
"What happened? What did he say?"
I look at her.
At the fog.
At the empty space where the old man had stood.
And my voice comes out hollow.
"He told me to find something."
My hand tightens around the silver bookmark.
"A book."
Lorean's face pales. "What book?"
My heart pounds.
I don't know.
But I'm about to find out.
Because the unease I felt all morning has settled into certainty—
Something has begun.
And it has everything to do with us.