Clara woke to the soft tap of rain against the window. Grey morning seeped through curtains she’d forgotten to close, washing the bedroom in a muted glow. Her limbs were heavy, her head aching faintly as she sat up, slowly blinking away the remnants of a dream she couldn’t quite recall.
The clock read half past eight. Clara ran a hand over her face, grimacing at the dull soreness that lingered beneath her skin—a quiet reminder of the river’s chill still clinging stubbornly to her bones. She glanced at the empty space beside her. The bed felt vast without Jack’s warm, familiar presence.
With a resigned sigh, she rose and padded to the kitchen to make coffee, the scent of brewing espresso comforting in its mundane familiarity. Clara settled at the kitchen table with her laptop, the screen casting a sterile glow over her tired features. Moments later, Jack’s name blinked insistently, the video call ringing louder than it should have.
She hesitated a moment before answering, forcing a soft smile as Jack’s face filled the screen. The warm lamplight of his parents'' house softened his features, but shadows of exhaustion darkened his hazel eyes.
“Hey,” he said quietly, a cautious note in his voice. “How are you holding up?”
Clara offered a careful shrug. “Better today. Slept alright.” It was half true. She had slept—though fitfully—but the echo of cold water and grasping hands was never far.
Jack studied her face through the screen, visibly worried. “Are you sure everything’s okay between us, Clara? Because if it’s not…”
His hesitation felt like a needle beneath her ribs. She shook her head gently, hating the way her voice caught as she reassured him, “Everything’s fine, Jack. Really. I''m fine.”
She lied easily enough—maybe too easily—and guilt tightened its grip around her throat. Jack’s eyes softened, but uncertainty lingered in his gaze.
“If you need me home—”
“Stay,” she urged softly. “I think I just need a bit of space. A few days to…sort myself out.”
Jack nodded slowly, resigned. “Alright. But call me if anything—”
“I promise,” she cut in gently, trying not to feel like she’d betrayed him even more deeply. The call ended quietly, leaving the apartment wrapped once more in silence.
With a steadying breath, Clara stood, pouring the rest of her coffee down the drain, her appetite lost. A long run—that’s what she needed. She dressed quickly, lacing up sneakers and heading out into the misty streets of Erelis. Her footsteps echoed rhythmically against rain-soaked pavement, the cool air gradually clearing her head.
By the time she returned, breathless and flushed, a strange restlessness had taken hold. She glanced at the invitation card Gabriel had left. Lantern Festival. Maybe a normal evening was exactly what she needed—away from the morgue, from Jack’s worry, from her own fears. Before she could overthink it, she set it aside and headed to shower, determined to make something good out of the day.
The afternoon found her wandering the winding streets near the river Elkie. Clara had carefully dressed, smoothing tinted moisturizer over skin still pale from exhaustion, mascara lengthening her lashes just enough to distract from tired eyes. She wasn’t sure why she’d taken the extra care—perhaps she needed to feel more like herself, even if only for one day.
She’d always liked the riverside district, with its quirky boutiques and coffee shops nestled between old brick buildings. But today she wasn’t here for coffee or vintage clothing; she sought answers.
Clara paused outside a small shop she’d never noticed before, Clara stepped off the bustling midday sidewalk and paused, one foot hovering over a threshold she hadn’t expected to find. The shop’s entrance was tucked between a boarded-up antiques store and a vacant lot overgrown with weeds. She almost missed it entirely. A carved wooden sign above the door read Bookbinery, its letters faded and half-obscured by years of Erelis''s grime. She needed a refuge from her own mind, and this narrow, dim bookstore felt like a sanctuary waiting with open arms.
Inside, a brass bell tinkled softly as the door closed behind her. Clara inhaled and let the silence wrap around her. The air was thick with the perfume of , laced with a tendril of sweet incense smoke that curled from a burner on the front counter. Shelves rose in uneven columns all around, teetering under the weight of forgotten tomes. Ancient wooden floorboards creaked beneath her sneakers as she took a few tentative steps forward. It was cooler in here, the daylight muted by stained-glass clerestory windows high above. In the half-light, motes of dust floated like tiny galaxies, stirred by her presence. Clara felt her tight shoulders finally loosen a fraction. This was a place where , where the world outside might as well have been a dream. Exactly what she needed.
She hadn’t lied to Jack entirely—she really was “fine” in the physical sense. No new bruises bloomed on her skin, and the scratches on her ankle from the river’s corpse had faded to faint marks. But when he’d appeared on her laptop screen earlier today, all concerned eyes and furrowed brow, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the truth. How could she explain the hollow ache that had settled in her chest, or the nightmares that clung to her like cobwebs? How could she tell him about the corpse that tried to drown her, or the way death itself seemed to be following her like a shadow? So she had smiled, told him everything is fine, and watched his worry deepen even as he nodded.
Lying to Jack left a bitter taste on her tongue. Guilt pressed at her ribs now, an uncomfortable companion to her racing thoughts. , she hoped, running a finger along the spine of a nearby book. She had come here seeking something—answers, distraction, maybe both. Either way, the quiet gloom of the bookstore felt comforting.
Clara drifted deeper between the shelves. The shop seemed to stretch on much farther than the exterior implied, with narrow aisles branching into alcoves and corners lost to shadow. Here and there, green glass lamps cast pools of soft light on reading nooks cluttered with velvet cushions. A tabby cat dozed atop a stack of encyclopaedias , lifting its head briefly to eye Clara before returning to its slumber. She offered it a faint smile and continued on. No shopkeeper emerged to greet her, but she sensed a watchful presence somewhere, perhaps an old man in the back room listening for the bell. That suited her just fine; she preferred to browse unnoticed.
Her fingers brushed over cracked leather bindings and cloth covers bleached by time. were exactly what she was looking for. She recalled the scribbled notes she’d made in her phone last night: “Vespertina,” death’s-head moth, Latin phrase? Rituals? The word vespertina had lodged itself in her mind ever since she’d first heard it whispered by an acquaintance at the city archives. Supposedly, it was connected to an old folktale about restless spirits. And the death’s-head hawk moth… Clara couldn’t forget the she’d seen seared into that corpse’s skin at the morgue—a moth with a skull pattern.
It matched the nightmare that woke her breathless days ago, when she’d dreamed of moths swarming her, smothering her in darkness. There had to be a thread tying these things together. Some clue to explain why the dead were… stirring. Why she, of all people, had twice been nearly dragged beyond the veil of life. She turned down an aisle labeled Occult & Folklore. The smell of old ink grew stronger. Many of the books here had no titles on their spines, just symbols or nothing at all. Clara ran her hand along them until one snagged her attention—a , its cover embossed with a faded silver moth motif. Her pulse ticked faster. She gently pulled it from the shelf, sending a cascade of dust motes swirling. The cover creaked as she opened it. Inside, the pages were thick and yellowed, filled with slanted handwriting and the occasional printed block of Latin text. It looked more like a personal journal than a published book.
Cradling the book in her hands, Clara retreated into a corner where a stained-glass lamp threw ruby and sapphire patterns across the page. She perched on a low wooden stool and began to read. The author—whoever they were—had an affinity for riddles and allegory. Clara flipped past sketches of herbs and strange insects in the margins: a foxglove plant, a raven, a series of moths each drawn with unnervingly on their wings. Her heart gave a subtle kick at the sight of those images. Death’s-head moths, just as she suspected. One sketch showed a moth with a skull-shaped pattern on its back, perched atop a human skull. Beneath it, written in Latin, were the words:
Clara mouthed the phrase under her breath, sounding out the Latin as best she could. “Ad vocem noctis… redeunt qui nunquam abierunt.” She recognized noctis as “night,” and nunquam—never. Redeunt she wasn’t sure about, but vocem was something like “voice.” At the voice of night, return… those who never left? A chill skittered down her spine. The idea resonated too closely with her recent experiences—return those who never left. It brought to mind the dead man by the river, eyes open when they should not have been; the invisible hands in her bathtub pulling her down. Those who never truly left this world, returning when night calls to them. Clara swallowed, suddenly aware of how alone and small she was amidst these towering shelves.
She traced the words lightly with her fingertip, leaving a trail in the dust on the page. Why would this be written here, in a journal about moths and rituals? The ink was a rust-brown, as if written with old blood. The handwriting around it was erratic, desperate. Clara squinted at a cramped notation penciled beneath the Latin. It was in English, a barely legible scrawl: “They are waking. We wake them without meaning to.” Her breath caught. Waking the dead without meaning to. The phrase throbbed in her mind like a warning. Did this author accidentally rouse something? Was she somehow doing the same?
Suddenly, the lamp’s light above her flickered—once, twice. Clara’s skin prickled with the sense that she was no longer alone in this tucked-away corner. She glanced up from the book, heart thudding. Between two shelves a few paces ahead, a stood in the dim aisle, watching her quietly. All she could see at first was his silhouette, backlit by a stray beam of overcast daylight from a high window. He was broad-shouldered, coat hanging open around a solid frame. For a split second her stomach clenched with instinctive wariness—had Gabriel followed her here? Was it some other stranger? But then the man stepped forward, into the coluored light cast by the stained-glass lamp, and Clara’s apprehension melted into astonishment.
It was . The stranger from the riverbank. Roen.
He inclined his head slightly in greeting, an almost old-fashioned gesture that sent a lock of his dark hair tumbling across his forehead. Clara realised she had stopped breathing. Her fingers clutched the open book with a tremor. The shop suddenly felt even smaller, the air charged with a hush so profound she could hear the faint tick of a clock somewhere in the store. Roen was the first to break the silence. In a low voice, edged with that gentle rasp she remembered, he spoke: "Hello, old friend" He took a step closer “At the voice of night, return those who never left.” He said it as a statement, not a question—translating the Latin aloud.
Clara’s lips parted in surprise. That chill was back, but it was different now, tangled with a strange warmth that spread up through her chest. She shut the book on her finger to mark the page and rose slowly from the stool. “You speak Latin?” she asked, keeping her tone light despite the racing of her pulse.
Roen’s mouth curved ever so slightly. “I’ve picked up a few things over the years,” he replied. He took another unhurried step closer, and the lamplight spilled over him. For the first time, Clara truly saw him.
The man from that terrifying night stood barely an arm’s length away now, unmistakably real against the backdrop of dusty books. In the tempered glow of afternoon filtering through stained glass, Roen was arresting. Dark hair, still with a slight wave as she remembered, framed a face that was both perfectly human and something beyond human. His features were refined, almost too flawless—high cheekbones and a strong line of jaw balanced by an enticing softness at the mouth. There was a quiet intensity about him, an to his face that made it hard to look away. Clara found herself momentarily speechless, caught in the gravity of his presence. In the river’s darkness she had thought his eyes were grey or maybe blue; here, a stray ray of light found them and revealed hints of both, a pale storm-cloud hue that seemed to glow from within. They regarded her now with open curiosity and a touch of something like concern.
She realised she must have been staring. Heat flooded her cheeks—an unfamiliar sensation, as Clara couldn’t recall the last time she’d blushed in front of anyone. She cleared her throat softly and tried to collect herself. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said, aiming for a composed, teasing tone. “We have to stop meeting like this—next time people will talk.”
Roen’s slight smile widened by a fraction, crinkling the corners of those impossibly light eyes. “Hello, Clara,” he said, voice as rich and smooth as she remembered. He seemed pleased by her composure. “I promise I’m not in the habit of ambushing people in bookstores. Or in rivers, for that matter.”
Clara huffed a soft breath of laughter. The sound came easier than she expected. “Good to know. Ambushing isn’t really my preferred method of bumping into friends.” She slipped the blue journal closed and held it against her chest protectively, as if it were a secret she wasn’t ready to share. “What brings you here, Roen? Do you—” she arched a brow, “—frequent places like this?”
He tilted his head, considering her through a lock of dark hair. In the gentle light his face was even more exquisite than memory had painted. The word beautiful felt too simple and too small. It was the kind of beauty that unsettled as much as it drew you in, like a solitary midnight snowfall or a fragment of a haunting song. Clara found that, oddly, she wasn’t nervous. If anything, Roen’s presence was a balm to the anxiety that had chased her in here. She hadn’t realised how deeply it had burrowed under her skin until now, when under his calm gaze, her fear receded like an outgoing tide.
“I might ask you the same question,” Roen countered gently. He let his fingers drift along the spine of a nearby volume—his hands were ungloved today, long-fingered and elegant, with a curious bruise-like shadow curling across the back of one. Clara glimpsed it only briefly before he slipped that hand into his coat pocket. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon. Are you… alright?”
It was such a simple question, yet layered with meaning. Clara sensed he wasn’t just asking about today. He was asking about that night, about what happened after he left her at her door. For a moment, she imagined telling him everything—her nightmares, the unspoken dread that something was very wrong with her world. How easy it would be to confide in someone who already knew part of the truth. But caution and habit held her tongue. She wasn’t used to sharing her burdens, not with Jack, not even with her closest friend Nina. Why would she spill her soul to a man who was nearly a stranger?
“I’m fine,” she replied, tucking a stray curl of chestnut-brown hair behind her ear. “And I think I owe you a proper thank you. I didn’t really get a chance that night—” She broke off, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat at the memory of river water filling her lungs. “If it weren’t for you, I might not be standing here. So… thank you, Roen. Truly.” Clara''s eyes bore into his.
Roen blinked then his gaze softened. He shook his head once. “There’s no need to thank me. Anyone would have done the same.” Clara couldn’t help but smile wryly. “I don’t know about anyone. You jumped into that dirty river after a complete stranger. That’s not exactly an everyday Good Samaritan move.”
A ghost of a chuckle escaped him. “Maybe not. But I’m glad I was in the right place at the right time.” He paused, as if weighing something in his mind, then added in a quieter tone, “And I am glad you’re alright.” The sincerity in his voice sent a warm flutter through Clara’s chest.
She lowered her eyes briefly, unsure how to handle such earnest concern. Her gaze landed on the book in her arms. Right—her research. A welcome distraction. “Well, since you’re here,” she ventured lightly, looking up at him through her lashes, “perhaps you can help me with something. Do you know what vespertina means?”
One of Roen’s dark eyebrows lifted a fraction. He debated weather he should indulge in her snooping. He leaned against the shelf, a picture of casual grace, though his eyes never left her face. “Vespertina… Latin for ‘of the evening,’ I believe. It can refer to things that are active at dusk.” A small smile played on his lips. “In entomology, it’s a genus of moth, if I recall correctly.”
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Clara tried not to show her surprise. His recall was exact—nearly word for word what she had gleaned from Gabriel’s notes and obscure Wikipedia pages late last night. “So you do frequent places like this,” she teased, hugging the journal closer. “Or you have a very eclectic education.”
Roen gave a slight shrug, the movement causing his coat to fall open a little more. Beneath it he wore a charcoal sweater that clung to his frame in a way that drew Clara’s involuntary notice. He carried himself with such ease; it was hard to imagine him ever being flustered. “I read a lot,” he admitted. “Old habits. And I suppose I have a… professional interest in things related to death.” His eyes glinted with a secret knowledge at that last word.
Clara’s pulse skipped. Professional interest in death. If only he knew that she understood the literal truth of that statement—at least, what she believed to be the truth. She still remembered pressing her back against her front door after he’d driven away that night, the realisation crashing over her: Death saved my life. It sounded mad even in her own head, but she felt it, bone-deep. And here he was, standing before her, browsing an occult bookstore and speaking Latin phrases about the dead returning. It was almost laughably on the nose. If this was Death in human form, he certainly wasn’t hiding his proclivities.
“Oh?” Clara kept her tone playful, arching an eyebrow. “What line of work are you in, exactly? Funeral home director? Gothic novelist?” She tilted her head coyly. “I have to guess, since you never really told me that night.”
Roen chuckled, a rich sound that made her stomach give a strange flutter. “I didn’t, did I?” He murmured, running a hand through his hair in a surprisingly boyish gesture, as if caught being a little rude. “Forgive me. I’m not used to talking about myself.” He glanced around the dim, empty aisles, a small smile still on his lips. “Let’s just say I’m in… . I manage things that need to be kept in order, items people leave behind.”
It was an evasive answer wrapped in a truth, and Clara sensed that. Collections. Souls, perhaps? A flicker of wry humour crossed her mind, but she matched his tone. “Sounds mysterious. I bet it keeps you busy, managing everyone’s lost things.”
“You have no idea,” Roen said quietly. For just a heartbeat, his gaze drifted past her, as if seeing beyond the walls of the shop to something far away. The weight of ages seemed to hang on him in that unguarded instant, and Clara suddenly felt an urge to reach out—to recall him back to the present with her. But before she could act on it, his focus snapped back. “And you?” he asked. “You spend your free time decoding Latin in hidden bookstores, it seems.”
Clara laughed under her breath. “Not always. I… I work at the city morgue, actually. I prepare bodies for funeral viewings.” She offered this somewhat cautiously, unsure if normal people found it macabre. Usually, mentioning her profession was a quick way to end small talk. But Roen’s face lit with recognition, not disgust. “That explains a few things,” he said softly, almost to himself.
She smirked. “Explains what? My charming conversational skills?”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “Your composure,” he clarified. “Most people would be…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “Traumatised? Hysterical?” Clara supplied dryly.
Roen’s eyes warmed. “Understandably shaken,” he amended. “After what happened the other night. But you seem to have taken it in stride. You’re even researching it.” He nodded toward the journal she held. “It takes a certain fortitude to seek answers about something that almost killed you.”
Clara’s grip tightened slightly on the book’s spine. She hadn’t thought of it that way. For her, the drive to understand was almost compulsive—something terrible had happened and she needed to make sense of it. The fear would only worsen if left in the dark. “I guess I don’t scare easily,” she said with a small, self-conscious shrug. “Working with the dead… you get used to things that might unnerve others. And besides,” she added, her tone turning wry, “I’d rather know what I’m dealing with than wait for it to sneak up on me again.” She tapped the cover of the book. “Even if that means combing through dusty tomes for obscure clues.”
There was admiration in Roen’s eyes that made her heart do an unexpected flip. “Still,” he murmured, “I find it… remarkable.”
“What is?” she asked softly.
He hesitated, as if the intensity of his own thoughts surprised him. His gaze dropped briefly, and she swore she saw a hint of colour on his cheeks now, a subtle flush beneath that porcelain skin. “You,” Roen finally said. “Most people fear death. You don’t. You walk alongside it with… grace. Even curiosity.” He glanced at the book, then back to her face. “It’s… rather captivating.”
Clara felt her cheeks burn hotter. She managed a light laugh to ease the sudden tension that fluttered between them. If only he knew—death had been her companion in one way or another for a very long time. She remembered being thirteen, standing in a funeral parlour beside her mother’s coffin, feeling not terror but a strange, calm sadness, as if Death had held her hand instead of scaring her. It wasn’t death that frightened her—it was the thought of the dead rising that had her chasing answers now.
“I don’t know about captivating,” she replied with a faint smile. “I’m a practical person. Dead is dead. Or… it’s supposed to be.” She blew out a breath, letting some of her real worry seep into her voice. “What happened in the river… it shouldn’t have been possible. Dead men don’t just wake up like that.” Her words were quiet but fervent. “Something is wrong, Roen. And I can’t just pretend it’s all fine. Not after nearly drowning twice.”
She hadn’t meant to say that last part—she hadn’t told anyone about the bathtub incident—but the admission slipped out. Her heartbeat stumbled as she realised it. Would he think her insane now? Babbling about corpses waking and multiple near-drownings?
Roen straightened, the slight smile vanishing. “Twice?” he echoed, concern sharpening his features. He took a half-step forward, closing the distance between them to mere inches. Clara was suddenly enveloped in his presence: the that clung to him washed over her senses. It was exactly as she remembered—cool and fresh like crushed mint leaves, grounded by a green, loamy aroma of forests after rain. Underneath it all was that ancient warmth, subtle but steady, like the lingering incense in a centuries-old cathedral. The effect was oddly soothing; it steadied her even as her nerves jumped from the proximity.
She nodded, her throat dry. “About a week ago… I had an accident at home.” She tried for a reassuring tone, as if to dissuade the worry in his eyes. “It’s a long story, but—something pulled me underwater then, too. I was alone in my bathtub and I nearly… Well. I managed to break free.” Clara offered a ghost of a smile. “I’m starting to feel like I have a rather dysfunctional relationship with baths and rivers.”
Roen didn’t laugh at her dark little joke. His eyes had gone stormy, that strange internal light in them flickering like a candle in a gale. For a moment, Clara wondered if she’d said too much. Then he exhaled slowly, and the tension in his shoulders eased. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the simple sympathy in his voice threatened to unravel the composure she clung to. “You’ve been through more than anyone should. No wonder you’re searching for answers.” He glanced down, and Clara realised with a flush that at some point, perhaps when he stepped nearer, his hand had come to rest lightly on the shelf beside her, near her shoulder. It wasn’t touching her—he wasn’t quite that bold—but the closeness sent a subtle thrill through her all the same.
She swallowed, trying to ignore the way her skin seemed to tingle in awareness of him. “It’s probably nothing,” she said, forcing a casual note. “Random coincidences, or some prank gone wrong… I don’t know. I just feel like if I can find out what Vespertina or these moth symbols mean, maybe I can understand why—” She cut herself off before saying why death is following me. That might be a step too far.
Roen’s expression grew thoughtful. “Moths often symbolise the soul in folklore,” he offered gently. “Or messengers from the other side. The death’s-head hawk moth in particular has long been an omen in Western mythology.” He spoke carefully, as though he had to choose which knowledge he could share. “In some old practices, they were used in rituals attempting to communicate with the dead. The idea was that these creatures, being active at night and attracted to flame, could carry messages to those who had passed on.” A wry note entered his tone. “Of course, such rituals rarely went as planned. Disturbing the natural order can have… consequences.”
Clara absorbed his words, her heart thumping faster. He spoke as if he truly knew these things, not like someone merely repeating lore heard in passing. “Consequences,” she echoed. Her mind jumped back to the scrawled note: “We wake them without meaning to.” A chill crept over her skin despite the warmth of the enclosed space. “So someone could accidentally wake the dead by… by trying to talk to them?”
Roen studied her face, and she had the uncanny sense he was reading her, seeing every thought that flashed in her eyes. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “Or by reading from a text they don’t fully understand. Saying the wrong words at the wrong time.” He lifted a hand as if to touch the cover of her journal, then seemed to think better of it and let his arm fall. “Knowledge is power, but it can also be a beacon. Sometimes when you shine a light, you draw forth things from the dark—things you never intended to find.”
The timbre of his voice was so quiet and hypnotic that Clara felt a shiver flow through her. She realised suddenly that this corner of the bookstore was far darker than when she’d first sat down—the sun outside had dipped, and only the stained-glass lamp illuminated them now in jeweled tones. The day was slipping away. How long had they been talking in hushed voices here, hidden among the dusty volumes? It felt like minutes and hours all at once.
Clara wet her lips. “You make it sound like I should put this book down and run,” she said, half-jesting, half-serious.
Roen’s eyes gentled. “Not at all. I only mean to say… be careful. Pursuing the unknown can be dangerous, especially for someone who…” He trailed off, and this time Clara sensed a hesitation out of personal concern rather than secrecy. “Someone who has already been touched by that darkness.”
Her chest tightened. He’s worried about me. It was an alarming and oddly comforting realisation. She managed a small smile to ease the heaviness of the moment. “I appreciate the warning. Really. But caution isn’t going to satisfy my curiosity. I need to know what’s happening.” She lifted her chin, a spark of determination flaring in her. “I’m not afraid of the dark, Roen.
For a heartbeat, Roen simply gazed at her, an intensity in his face that made her pulse stumble. Then he let out a breath of a laugh—soft and almost admiring. “You are… extraordinarily brave, Clara.” The way he said her name, low and reverent, made it feel like something precious. “Or extraordinarily stubborn.”
She chuckled. “I’ll take either as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one,” he assured, lips curving. There was a pause, an intimate hush in which they both seemed to become aware of how near they were standing. Clara could see the fine detail of dark lashes around his eyes, the subtle pulse at the base of his throat. A memory flooded her: the moment in his car when he’d buckled her seatbelt, how close his face had been then… She felt that closeness now, an electric potential in the scant space between them.
Her heart drummed a little faster. She half expected him to step back, to break the spell. But Roen stayed where he was, towering protectively close, as if drawn by the same magnetism that held her. Clara’s hand, almost of its own accord, moved to rest on the shelf beside her, and her fingertips brushed something warm and solid. It was his hand, still gripping the wooden ledge near her shoulder. The contact was barely there—a graze of skin against skin—but both of them froze lightly at the touch.
Clara’s breath hitched. The muffled sounds of the city outside, the ticking clock, even the faint rustle of the bookstore’s cat—everything else dropped away. There was just the two of them in a pool of stained-glass light, touching in the smallest, most innocent way that nevertheless sent a thrill through her blood. She should pull away. She knew she should. And yet… she didn’t.
Slowly, Roen drew his hand back, and her fingers slipped from his. He did it with such care, as if he’d felt that same spark and regretted that propriety forced him to sever it. He cleared his throat gently. “I, ah—I should let you continue your research,” he said, voice a touch lower than before. Was he… flustered? It was such a human reaction that it charmed her even more. Death—if he was Death—looking almost bashful because their hands accidentally touched.
Clara found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reached her eyes. “Perhaps I’ve had enough dusty reading for one day,” she said. The journal in her arms felt heavier now, its morbid secrets a little less appealing compared to the living, breathing enigma standing before her. “Besides, it’s nearly evening. I shouldn’t lose track of time completely.” She carefully set the old book aside on a stack of others. She could always purchase it on her way out, or return tomorrow. Right now, something else tugged at her attention—something far more current.
“Evening,” Roen repeated thoughtfully. He glanced toward the front of the shop, where the grey light of late day pooled on the floorboards. “The Lantern Festival is tonight, isn’t it? I saw banners for it in the high street.”
Clara nodded, surprised and pleased he knew. “It is. The festivities start at sunset by the river.” A small bubble of excitement welled in her chest at the thought. She hadn’t attended the Lantern Festival in years—not since she was a child making paper lanterns with her sister. But tonight she’d promised herself she would go, darkness and danger be damned. Perhaps she wanted to prove she wasn’t afraid, or maybe she just needed to feel like an ordinary person for a little while, celebrating under the glow of lantern light.
“Are you planning to go?” Roen asked casually, but she caught the note of genuine interest under the lightness.
“Yes,” she said, matching his casual tone. “With a friend.” She added that last part on impulse, though she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps to ground herself, to remember that she had a life outside of this strange connection. Technically, it wasn’t a lie—her friend Nina had agreed to meet her there. But Nina was as flighty as a moth herself; there was a good chance she’d cancel last minute for a date or work. Clara didn’t particularly mind either way.
“Ah.” Roen’s expression remained polite, but she noticed his lashes lower briefly, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Was that… disappointment? No, she must have imagined it.
“With my friend Nina,” Clara elaborated, finding herself wanting to clarify for reasons she didn’t fully fathom. “She’s been pestering me to attend some kind of community event for ages. I figured lanterns on the riverbank was a good place to start.” She offered a lopsided grin. “You know, ease myself back into the world of the living.”
At that, Roen did smile—a warm, real smile that made her stomach flip. “The world of the living suits you,” he said softly. “And the festival is a beautiful tradition. Hundreds of lanterns floating on the water… It’s the kind of light that keeps the darkness at bay, if only for a night.” His gaze lingered on her face, almost reverently, and Clara felt that hush fall between them again—heavy with meaning, with things unspoken.
“Will you be going?” she asked, her voice quieter now. The question hung in the air like one of those lanterns might, fragile and glowing.
For a moment, Roen simply looked at her, a slight surprise flitting across his features, as if he hadn’t expected her to ask. Then he answered, “I think I will.” There was a softness in his tone that made her chest ache. “I’d like to see the lanterns.”
Clara’s lips curved. “Maybe I’ll see you there, then.”
“Maybe you will,” Roen replied, the corner of his mouth quirking—almost a playful grin, if he ever allowed one to fully form.
Outside, the light was dimming further, the cloudy sky shading toward dusk. A faint murmur of voices drifted in as a couple of customers passed by the front windows. The shopkeeper’s silhouette finally appeared at the counter, no doubt wondering if his last patron was going to buy that moth-eaten book or not. It was time to go.
Clara felt a reluctant reluctance to break this moment. She hadn’t realised how easy it was to talk with Roen, how naturally conversation had flowed in this quiet, hidden corner of the world. The thought of stepping back out into the noise and normalcy of the street felt jarring. But the Lantern Festival awaited—and perhaps, she thought with a flutter of anticipation she tried to ignore, awaited there too.
She bent to retrieve her satchel and slid the blue journal of Vespertina and moths carefully inside. She would purchase it on her way out; she couldn’t leave without it now, not after what she’d read. When she straightened, Roen had stepped back to allow her space, ever the gentleman. Yet he hovered close enough that she could feel a gentle warmth emanating from him. Or perhaps that warmth was within her.
“Thank you,” she said, surprising herself. When he cocked his head questioningly, she clarified with a smile, “For the Latin translation. And the mini lecture on moths and folklore. It was actually… very helpful.”
A modest dip of his head acknowledged her thanks. “Anytime. I’m glad I could help, even a little.” He hesitated, studying her quietly, then reached into his coat pocket and drew out a small, folded card. He offered it between two fingers, elegant and assured.
“If you discover anything else in that book—or if your research leads you somewhere uncertain,” he said softly, “you can reach me here.”
Clara took the card, her fingers brushing lightly against his in the exchange. The brief contact sent a quiet shock through her skin, warm and strangely comforting. The card was simple: heavy ivory paper, embossed with his name—Roen—in ink as dark as midnight. Beneath it, printed neatly, was the name of a café she''d passed once or twice in the older quarter of Erelis. The Raven. She knew it, vaguely, as a place that never seemed to close its doors, tucked between cobblestone alleys and wrought-iron balconies, half-hidden in shadows. No phone number, no email—just a name, an invitation to find him in the world he inhabited.
Clara felt suddenly bold, and acted before caution could silence her. She reached out again, gently touching his forearm, just a whisper of pressure through the soft wool of his coat. Beneath, she felt muscle, warmth, the steady beat of something reassuringly alive. Roen’s eyes widened slightly at her touch, betraying surprise beneath his carefully constructed calm.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I appreciate this more than you realise.”
For just a moment, he leaned subtly into her fingers, as if instinctively drawn to her warmth. Then, slowly, he nodded once.
Realising she was still holding on to him, Clara flushed and drew her hand back. The two of them made their way together down the narrow aisle toward the front of the shop. Their footsteps creaked in tandem on the wooden floor. At the threshold, she paused to pay the proprietor—a wrinkled old woman who looked between Clara and Roen with keen, knowing eyes, though she said nothing aside from quoting a price for the journal. Clara handed over a few notes, tucked the change into her coat pocket, and stepped aside.
Roen lingered by the door. As Clara pushed it open, the bell jingled and a gust of cool evening air swept in, stirring the edges of Roen’s dark hair. He looked to her one last time, and for a moment, in the fading light, his face was cast half in shadow, half in the golden glow of the shop’s lamps. The effect was striking—, as if he stood at the threshold between light and dark, belonging to neither and both.
“Goodbye, Clara,” he said softly. It sounded intimate the way he spoke it, like good night rather than goodbye.
She offered him a gentle smile as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. “See you soon, Roen.” The door swung shut between them, his figure momentarily obscured by the reflection of streetlights on the glass. The bell’s chime rang once more in final farewell.
Clara stood still on the pavement for a second, clutching her satchel with the old journal inside. The city moved around her—people hurrying toward the river for the festival, lights flickering to life in windows, the distant strains of music starting up by the waterfront. Yet she felt suspended in that quiet book-scented bubble a moment longer, replaying the last hour in her mind. Had she really just had a conversation like that? With Death himself? She breathed out, a mix of incredulity and wonder swirling in her chest.
Above the rooftops to the west, the sun had vanished, leaving a wash of deep blue and indigo. Night was arriving, and soon lanterns would bloom across the dark, carrying hopes and memories on their small flames. Clara turned and began walking toward the river, her pace brisk, heart light and pounding all at once.
She had sought out the bookstore in search of answers about death. Instead, she found —and with him, new questions, new mysteries, and a connection that defied explanation. It was quiet. It was uncanny. It was intense in a way that left her feeling more awake and alive than she had in a long time. Clara allowed herself a tiny smile as she melted into the evening crowd.