The sun didn't rise that morning — it leaked in.
Aaralyn opened her eyes to a soft gray glow slipping through the thin curtains, brushing the edges of the tiny room like an apology. The rain hadn't stopped. It had simply grown tired. Now it tapped gently against the window like it was asking to come in.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Her body ached from sleeping in her coat. Her thoughts were still half-tangled in dreams — heavy ones, full of shadows and whispers. Someone had said her name, but she couldn't remember the voice.
She sat up slowly. The room looked the same as last night — plain, small, quiet. But inside her, something had shifted.
Maybe it was the silence.
Maybe it was him.
The stranger.
The boy with storm eyes.
The one who looked at her like she wasn't invisible.
She didn't believe in fate.
But it didn't stop her heart from wondering.
Aaralyn stood and crossed to the window, resting her palm on the glass. Below, the city stirred — cars rolled by with splashes, people walked fast, holding coffee and purpose. And across the street, the neon sign of a tiny bookstore blinked to life.
Aaralyn blinked, too.
A bookstore.
A new name, a new city… but maybe not a new habit.
Maybe today she could pretend to be someone else. Someone normal. Someone who walked into bookstores just for the smell of paper.
She ran fingers through her hair, tied it up messily, and reached for her worn boots. She didn't know where the day would lead.
But she was tired of being scared of it.
Meanwhile…
Three blocks away, in the corner booth of a forgotten café, Aaden watched the rain slide down his coffee cup.
He hadn't slept. Sleep was dangerous.
He leaned back, hood still up, fingers tapping lightly on the envelope in his coat.
He didn't want to follow her.
He just… didn't know how not to.
The bell above the bookstore door gave a quiet jingle — a delicate sound, like it belonged to a different time.
Aaralyn stepped inside, the dampness of the outside world clinging to her coat. The air smelled like old stories — ink and paper and forgotten worlds. She inhaled it like a secret.
It was small inside, but not cramped. Shelves leaned toward each other like gossiping friends, and stacks of books spilled onto the floor in little rebellions. A cat, orange and lazy, stretched on the windowsill and blinked at her with unimpressed interest.
The shopkeeper, a woman with silver-streaked hair and round glasses, looked up from behind the counter. "You're new," she said simply, without question.
Aaralyn nodded, brushing water from her sleeves. "Just looking."
"Take your time," the woman said, and went back to her book — as if she already knew Aaralyn wouldn't leave empty-handed.
She wandered between the shelves, fingers grazing spines. Titles whispered to her — poetry, thrillers, old love letters in the form of novels. Her gaze landed on a worn red journal tucked sideways between two thick biographies.
No title. No author. Just a soft leather cover, tied shut with a ribbon.
She reached for it — and paused.
A flicker.
For just a second, she thought she saw someone through the rain-dappled glass of the front window. A shape in a dark coat. Watching.
But when she turned fully… no one was there.
She shook her head.
Paranoia.
It was the one thing she'd brought with her from every city she left behind.
Aaralyn picked up the red journal, running her thumb along its edge. It felt warm. Familiar, almost. She opened it to the first page.
Nothing.
The whole thing was empty.
But it still felt like it belonged to someone.
"Found something?" the shopkeeper asked, suddenly close.
"I think so."
The woman smiled — a slow, knowing smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Sometimes stories find you, before you're ready to write them."
Aaralyn didn't know what that meant.
But she bought the journal anyway.
Outside, the rain thickened again. And across the street, hidden in the crowd, Aaden turned away before she saw him.
He wasn't ready for her to see him yet.
Not until he figured out what side she was really on.
Back in her tiny room, Aaralyn curled up by the window with a borrowed blanket, the red journal resting on her knees. The rain hadn't stopped. It was steadier now — a soft rhythm against the glass, like a lullaby.
She lit the tiny desk lamp and let its golden glow spill across the page.
The journal was completely blank. No lines, no scribbles. It smelled faintly of cedar and old roses — like it had been waiting a long time to be held again.
She hesitated with the pen hovering above the first page.
She hadn't written in a while.
Not since everything fell apart.
But something about this day — this city, this strange sense of being watched but not afraid — made her brave.
She began with a single word.
"Today, I felt seen."
She paused, then smiled softly to herself.
The pen kept moving.
"Not known, not understood — just... seen. Like someone looked at me and didn't turn away. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's everything. But for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel invisible."
She closed the journal gently, cradling it in her lap like it might shatter.
Outside, the city buzzed with secrets. Somewhere out there, that boy with storm eyes still lingered in the shadows.
But for tonight, she let herself breathe.
Safe.
Warm.
Unwritten.