The inn was too quiet.
It was the kind of silence that didn't rest — it pressed. It crawled up the walls, lingered under the floorboards, and breathed against the back of my neck. The fire in the old brick hearth had long gone out, leaving only the faint smell of smoke and the memory of warmth.
I sat on the edge of the bed, still wearing Rafael's shirt. It hung loose on me, the sleeves rolled up past my elbows, his scent fading more each hour.
Every second since he'd disappeared felt like a lifetime folded into pain.
The note — that damned note — sat on the nightstand beside me, creased from how many times I'd unfolded and refolded it.
"Don't follow me."
Two words that didn't sound like him. Two words that sliced deeper the more I stared at them.
I'd spent the day searching every hallway, every narrow street outside the inn, asking anyone who might've seen him. But all I'd gotten were empty faces and the echo of my own voice bouncing off stone.
