The next morning, the town was still wrapped in a hush that made Raquel feel like she'd stepped into a forgotten dream. The market stalls were just beginning to open, their vendors arranging fruit, bread, and jars of honey as though rehearsing rituals they'd done for generations.
Raquel walked among them, notebook in hand, pretending to sketch the crooked rooftops when really, she was scanning the square.
And there he was again.
The boy from the library steps. He was seated at a café table this time, steam curling from a chipped mug. A book lay open in front of him, though his eyes weren't on the pages. They were on her.
Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to keep walking. Maybe this was just how small towns were — people stared at the newcomers. Still, something about the intensity of his gaze unsettled her. It wasn't curiosity. It was recognition.
"Raquel!" her mother's voice cut through the air. She turned to see her mom waving from a nearby stall, holding up a bundle of flowers. "Aren't these lovely? Perfect for the house."
Elena smiled faintly, but her thoughts were elsewhere. When she turned back toward the café table, the boy was gone.
---
That night, she couldn't sleep. The house was restless — groaning as though it breathed, sighing through the vents like whispers. Finally, unable to stand it, she slipped outside.
The moon was bright, silvering the streets. She walked without purpose, following the pull of something she didn't understand… until she found herself at the library.
And there he was again, sitting on the steps as though he had been waiting all along.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said, his voice low but not unkind.
Raquel froze. "Neither should you."
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but his eyes remained serious. "You're not from here."
"Obviously," she said, folding her arms. "And you're not exactly blending in, either."
He tilted his head, studying her. "What's your name?"
"Raqurl."
A strange silence stretched between them, filled with the distant song of crickets. Finally, he whispered, almost to himself:
"Raquel… It's you."
Her chest tightened. "What do you mean, it's me?"
But before he could answer, a sudden gust of wind tore through the square, scattering leaves around them. The library's old doors creaked as though pushed by unseen hands. And in that moment, Raqurl felt it — the unmistakable sense that the shadows of this town were listening.
The boy stood, slipping his book under his arm. "We shouldn't talk here. Not yet."
And with that, he disappeared into the night, leaving her with nothing but questions and the hollow echo of his words.
It's you.