Luna stood frozen on the cobblestone street, her breath shallow, eyes scanning the empty corner where the man had vanished. The wind tugged at her coat, and for a moment, she thought she might have imagined it all—the painting, the figure in the dock scene, even the way his gaze had locked onto hers like he recognized her too.
But she hadn't imagined him.
She turned back toward the café, heart still pounding, only to find the waitress watching her from behind the counter with an odd expression—half curiosity, half concern.
"You okay?" the woman asked, wiping her hands on a faded apron.
Luna nodded stiffly. "Yeah. Just… thought I saw someone I knew."
The woman's brow furrowed slightly. "You mean Elias?"
Luna blinked. "Elias?"
"Tall guy. New in town. Comes in every morning. Always asking about old records, maps, things people don't talk about anymore." She tilted her head. "You know him?"
"I… don't think so," Luna said slowly.
The name stirred something in her mind, though—not memory, but anticipation. Like a word on the tip of her tongue.
She left the café without finishing her coffee.
By the time she reached home, the sky had darkened into bruised hues of violet and gray. Marina was gone, probably off visiting one of the older townsfolk who still trusted her enough to ask for remedies or charms. Luna didn't wait for her. Instead, she went straight to the attic.
The painting remained where she'd left it.
She stared at it again, searching for more clues. The new figure—the blurred woman—seemed more defined now. Was that possible? Or was her mind simply filling in what wasn't there?
She reached out and touched the canvas once more.
A flicker.
Not movement this time—but sound.
Soft, distant laughter.
Then a voice, low and familiar.
"Don't forget me."
Luna pulled her hand away as if burned.
Downstairs, the grandfather clock began to chime.
Except it shouldn't have been chiming—it was nearly ten minutes past noon.
And yet, the bell struck thirteen times.
Thirteen.
Her pulse quickened.
She rushed downstairs and stared at the clock. The hands were moving backward.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Backward.
She backed away, her breath unsteady.
That night, she dreamed again.
This time, she stood in a room filled with books bound in cracked leather, their spines etched with strange symbols. A man sat at a desk, writing furiously by candlelight. He looked up suddenly—and smiled.
It was the man from the dock.
The man from the street.
He whispered her name.
When she woke, the house was silent.
Too silent.
She got up and walked barefoot down the hallway. The grandfather clock still ticked softly, but when she glanced at it, the hands had stopped entirely.
Frozen.
She returned to her room, wrapped herself in blankets, and tried to steady her thoughts.
But sleep wouldn't come.
Instead, she found herself sketching.
Without thinking, her fingers moved across the page, drawing lines she hadn't planned. A door carved with runes. A lantern swinging in a breeze that didn't exist. And beneath it all—a name.
Elias Vorne
She didn't remember writing it.
But she knew, somehow, that it was important.