I couldn't sleep.
The sea kept whispering against the rocks outside the window, a low sound like breathing. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the woman's face again — her hollow eyes, the blood on her sleeve, the way her hand shook when she said Rafael's name.
"He's not who you think he is," she'd whispered. "You'll find the proof soon enough."
Those words ran through my mind like a storm tide.
I lit the single lamp on the nightstand. The inn's room was small — wooden floorboards, a thin rug, a crooked picture on the wall of some old harbor. The air smelled of salt and candle wax. I told myself to rest, to wait until morning, but my hands wouldn't stay still.
Something inside me said move.
I pulled on Rafael's shirt — the one I'd refused to wash because it still smelled faintly of him — and padded barefoot to the desk. The woman had slipped something into my palm before she vanished into the fog. I hadn't looked yet. Now, under the flicker of light, I opened my hand.
