Chapter 7 Alaric's Silence
I wake to quiet that feels wrong.
Not the calm kind. Not the gentle, early-morning stillness that settles before a city stirs. This quiet is hollow. Expectant. Like a room holding its breath after someone has left without saying goodbye.
For a moment, I lie still in the narrow bed, staring at the dim ceiling, listening.
Nothing.
No kettle downstairs. No soft movement among the shelves. No low murmur of Alaric's voice, usually drifting up from the shop as if he speaks to the books when no one is listening.
My chest tightens.
"He wouldn't," I murmur to myself.
I sit up, the thin blanket sliding to my waist. The room is cold. Colder than it should be. I swing my feet to the floor and stand, the old boards creaking softly under my weight.
"Alaric?" I call.
My voice echoes back at me, unanswered.
I dress quickly, fingers clumsy, heart beginning to pound. As I step into the hall, I feel it fully now the absence. The way the building feels emptied, like something essential has been pulled out from its center.
I go downstairs.
The shop is exactly as we left it the night before. Papers neatly stacked. Lamps turned low. The chair across from mine pushed in, precise. Too precise.
His coat is gone.
I stop short, staring at the empty hook by the door.
"No," I whisper.
I move closer, touching the hook like that might somehow prove I'm mistaken. It's cold. Unused.
I turn slowly, scanning the room.
"Alaric?" I say again, louder now.
Silence.
I feel foolish standing there, my voice sounding too small in the space he seems to have carried with him. My throat tightens, a sharp ache blooming behind my eyes.
He knew what that letter meant.
The realization settles heavy in my chest.
He knew, and instead of telling me explaining arguing he vanished.
Anger flares, quick and hot, cutting through the hurt.
"You don't get to do that," I say aloud, my hands curling into fists. "You don't get to pull me into this and then disappear."
My voice cracks on the last word.
I move behind the desk, opening drawers I know are unlikely to hold answers. Old receipts. Catalog cards. A fountain pen laid carefully beside a folded scrap of paper.
I freeze.
The paper is blank.
No note. No explanation.
The lack of it feels deliberate. Like a refusal.
I sink into the chair behind the desk, pressing my palms to my eyes. The room smells like dust and old ink and him. It makes my chest ache.
"He warned me," I whisper. "He told me to stop."
And I didn't.
I think of the way his face changed when I unfolded the letter. The fear he tried to hide. The way he'd said my name like it mattered.
A flicker of guilt twists through me.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," I say to the empty room.
But I did.
Not intentionally. But intention doesn't undo impact.
I sit there longer than I mean to, replaying every conversation, every pause I might have pushed through too hard.
Finally, I stand.
If he thinks disappearing will stop me, he's wrong.
But the thought doesn't bring comfort. Only a deeper, sharper confusion.
I gather my things, my movements stiff and mechanical, then step outside.
The street is damp from overnight rain, the sky a pale gray. The city feels indifferent to my unraveling. People pass. Cars splash through puddles. Life continues.
I turn back once, staring at the darkened shop.
"Come back," I whisper, though I don't know if I mean it as a plea or a demand.
When night falls, he still hasn't returned.
And that's when the fear settles in fully.
Because Alaric Voss does not simply step away from things.
He endures them.
So if he's gone
I swallow hard, standing alone in the quiet shop.
He disappeared overnight.