The room smelled of salt and damp wood. My hands shook as I unfolded the small scrap of paper I'd found wedged under the window latch. The words were written in a dark red smear that had dried rough, the edges torn as if ripped from something larger.
Don't follow me. It's not safe. — R
For a second I couldn't breathe. My throat locked, my eyes burned. The blood wasn't fully dry; it flaked onto my fingers, turning them rusty.
"Rafael…" I whispered, as if saying his name could make him walk out of the shadows.
I sank onto the narrow bed. The sheets were cold against my legs, and the wind from the sea rattled the shutters. He'd been here. The thought hit me so hard it almost knocked me sideways. This tiny room had held him—his heartbeat, his scent, his fear.
He'd written this with his own blood.
