《The City That Whispers》 1. The Awakening The first thing Soren Blackwood noticed was the silence. Not the peaceful quiet of dawn. Not the dull hum of distant carriages or the muffled voices of passersby. This silence was thick, unnatural¡ªa void pressing against his ears, as if the world itself had paused to watch him wake. His mind felt heavy, thoughts sluggish and out of reach. The air smelled of old parchment, aged wood, and something faintly metallic. He opened his eyes. A dimly lit room stretched before him, bathed in the flickering glow of a gas lamp. Shadows stretched unnaturally against the walls, writhing across the faded wallpaper. The furniture was heavy, Victorian in style, well-kept yet exuding an air of age. A writing desk cluttered with books. A tall armoire in the corner. A mirror standing solemnly against the far wall. None of it was familiar. His breathing came faster. He pushed himself upright, the bedsheets rough and unfamiliar beneath his hands. The moment his feet touched the floor, a wave of dizziness struck him, disorienting and sudden. Where am I? The question should have had an easy answer. But his thoughts¡ªhis memories¡ªslipped like water through his fingers. A pressure built behind his eyes, something just out of reach. Then, his gaze landed on the writing desk. There, resting atop a stack of papers, was a leather-bound journal. The name Soren Blackwood was embossed in faded gold on the cover.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it A strange unease settled in his chest. That was his name. He was sure of it. But something in his gut told him¡­ he shouldn¡¯t be here. Slowly, he reached for the book, fingers tracing over the worn leather. The moment he touched it, a dull pulse ran through his skin, like an echo of something long forgotten. The pages crinkled softly as he opened them. The first page was blank. The second, too. Then, on the third page, handwriting appeared. His handwriting. But he had never written these words. > August 5th I don¡¯t remember writing this, but I know it¡¯s mine. The city feels wrong. Familiar, yet distant. I hear whispers in my dreams¡ªsomeone calling my name, but it¡¯s not my voice that answers. I must not look too soon. The key is hidden where the veil is thinnest. A chill crept down his spine. Soren snapped the journal shut, heart pounding. A knock at the door. He jerked upright. The sound was soft, deliberate. Then, a voice. ¡°Soren?¡± A girl¡¯s voice. Familiar. Too familiar. The door creaked open, and Tia Blackwood stepped into the dim light. His sister. She looked up at him with wide brown eyes, hesitant yet relieved. Her dark hair was loosely tied, strands falling around her face in soft curls. ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± she said. Soren opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. There was something wrong. He knew her. Of course he did. But his memories didn¡¯t fit together properly. It was as if someone had taken the pieces of his life and forced them into a shape that almost¡ªbut not quite¡ªmade sense. Tia studied his face, her expression unreadable. ¡°You¡­¡± she hesitated. ¡°You don¡¯t remember, do you?¡± His pulse quickened. ¡°Remember what?¡± A pause. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But then, she forced a small smile. ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± she said. ¡°You should come downstairs. Mother¡¯s waiting.¡± Then she turned and disappeared down the hall. The air felt colder in her absence. Soren remained still for a long moment, the journal clutched tightly in his hands. "You don¡¯t remember." What had he forgotten? His gaze drifted back to the journal, to the words that shouldn¡¯t exist. The key is hidden where the veil is thinnest. A slow unease coiled in his chest. He didn¡¯t know what it meant. But something told him he was about to find out. 2. The City That Watches The wooden stairs creaked beneath his steps, the sound strangely loud in the quiet house. Soren felt disconnected, as if the act of descending into the lower floor was something separate from him¡ªsomething rehearsed. The scent of fresh bread and black tea filled the air, warm and inviting. But there was something off about it, something distant. It was the kind of warmth that should have felt comforting. It didn¡¯t. At the bottom of the stairs, the hallway stretched toward the kitchen. The house was small but well-kept, the wooden floors smooth from years of care. The wallpaper curled slightly at the edges, and the dim glow of gaslight sconces flickered softly against the walls. His mother stood by the stove, stirring something in a pot. Amanda Blackwood¡ªa woman of quiet strength, her dark hair pulled into a loose braid, strands streaked with silver. She turned the moment she saw him. ¡°Soren.¡± A breath of relief. But her face was too carefully composed, her dark eyes studying him the same way Tia had. ¡°Come sit.¡± She placed a bowl in front of his usual seat, next to Tia, who was already eating quietly. ¡°You must be starving.¡± Soren sat. He should have been hungry¡ªbut he wasn¡¯t. He picked up the spoon, staring down at the broth, golden and clear. The steam curled upward, but the smell was faint. His senses felt dulled, like everything was a step removed from reality. Across the table, Tia watched him, silent. He swallowed. ¡°How long was I asleep?¡± Amanda hesitated, ladling more soup into her own bowl. ¡°Two days.¡± The answer sent a prickle of unease crawling up his spine. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. Two days? That wasn¡¯t normal. He exhaled slowly. ¡°¡­What happened?¡± His mother¡¯s grip on the ladle tightened¡ªjust for a moment. ¡°You were sick,¡± she said, too carefully. ¡°A fever. You were¡ª¡± She stopped herself. Then smiled, small and tired. ¡°It¡¯s good that you¡¯re feeling better.¡± Soren didn¡¯t reply immediately. He glanced at Tia. She quickly looked away, focusing on her meal. Something was wrong. But no one would tell him what. His grip on the spoon tightened. You don¡¯t remember, do you? Tia¡¯s words from earlier. A quiet realization settled in his chest: They weren¡¯t telling him everything. The question burned on his tongue¡ªwhat aren¡¯t you telling me?¡ªbut he forced it down. Now wasn¡¯t the time. Instead, he stirred his soup. ¡°Did anything¡­ happen? While I was sick?¡± Amanda paused mid-bite. She was careful with her next words. ¡°No. Nothing at all.¡± She was lying. A flicker of something not quite human passed through his mother¡¯s eyes before she looked back down at her food. Later that evening. The streets of Luthathel stretched before him, blanketed in the haze of the approaching night. Soren pulled his coat tighter against the chill. Gas lamps lined the cobbled streets, their flames flickering softly in the mist. The evening air carried the distant murmur of voices¡ªshopkeepers closing for the night, the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages echoing against the pavement. It was a city that felt frozen in time. And yet, something about it felt¡­ wrong. It wasn¡¯t something he could see, exactly. It was something beneath the surface¡ªa quiet wrongness, a hum in the back of his mind. The way the buildings stretched just a little too high. The way the lamplight flickered, even when there was no wind. The way some faces in the crowd looked too perfect¡ªas if they had been painted there, slightly out of focus. He kept walking, his boots tapping against the stone. Then, he saw it. A narrow alley, nestled between two brick buildings, its entrance shrouded in thick shadow. The gas lamp above it flickered erratically, casting long, unnatural shapes against the walls. And there¡ªetched into the cobblestone at the alley¡¯s entrance¡ªwas a mark. A sigil. Soren¡¯s breath caught in his throat. It was simple, yet intricate, twisting lines that folded in on themselves. It looked ancient¡ªas if it had always been there, long before the street had been built around it. The moment he laid eyes on it, his pulse quickened. A strange pull settled in his chest, an instinct he didn¡¯t understand. He stepped closer. The sigil looked¡­ alive. Its edges hummed faintly, as if reacting to his presence. It wasn¡¯t glowing, not exactly¡ªbut there was a feeling of depth, like it was more than just a carving on stone. Soren¡¯s mouth felt dry. He glanced around. No one else seemed to notice it. People walked past the alley without so much as a glance, their eyes sliding past it like it didn¡¯t exist. A strange thought entered his mind. Had this been here before? His memory strained, trying to recall if he had ever noticed this alley before. But the more he reached for the answer, the fuzzier his thoughts became. He looked down at his hand. His fingers twitched. The pull toward the sigil was stronger now, like an invisible thread drawing him closer. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out. His fingertips brushed against the stone¡ª A sharp static pulse shot through him. Soren staggered back, his breath catching in his throat. His vision blurred, the world tilting around him¡ª And then¡ª He heard it. A whisper. Faint. Just beneath his ears. A voice that wasn¡¯t his own. Calling his name. Soren¡¯s pulse thundered against his ribs. He stumbled back from the alley, chest heaving. The sigil remained unchanged. The whisper was gone. But his hand¡ªhis fingertips still tingled, as if something had touched him back. And for the first time since waking up in this strange, familiar city¡ª Soren felt truly afraid. 3. The Weight of the Ordinary The sigil was still there. Soren kept walking. His legs moved on instinct, carrying him past the alley, past the flickering gas lamps, past the faces in the crowd that seemed to linger on him for a second too long. He clenched his hand, the tingling sensation still burning in his fingertips. It was nothing. That¡¯s what he told himself. Maybe it was just the fever. He had been sick for two days¡ªhis mother said so. Maybe his mind was still sluggish, playing tricks on him. Maybe. The thought did nothing to calm the weight pressing against his ribs. The whisper had felt real. By the time he reached Harper¡¯s Apothecary, the sky had darkened, bruised indigo stretching over the rooftops. The shop was nestled between two aging brick buildings, its windows glowing with warm candlelight. A wooden sign above the door swayed slightly in the breeze, the painted words Harper¡¯s Fine Remedies & Curios faded with time. He took a slow breath, running a hand through his hair before stepping inside. The scent of dried herbs, parchment, and something faintly metallic filled the air. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with glass jars and neatly labeled vials. Behind the counter, an older man with silver-streaked hair and sharp gray eyes carefully measured powdered root into a scale.The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. Mr. Harper. The apothecary looked up as the bell above the door chimed. His expression softened with recognition. ¡°Ah. Soren.¡± His gaze flickered over him, assessing. ¡°Back from the dead, are we?¡± Soren forced a tired smile. ¡°Seems like it.¡± Mr. Harper scoffed but said nothing as he returned to his work. Soren stepped behind the counter, rolling up his sleeves. The motions were familiar, mechanical. He knew this place, had worked here for years. Yet today, it felt distant. The weight of the journal in his coat pocket was a reminder¡ªhe was missing something. He tried to push the thought away. He focused on the mortar and pestle in his hands, on the rhythmic grinding of dried valerian root into powder. The sound was steady, grounding. Normal. The sigil flickered behind his eyes. His grip tightened on the pestle. He would not think about it. The hours passed in a steady haze. Customers came and went, some familiar, others faceless. Mr. Harper busied himself with restocking tinctures, occasionally glancing at Soren but saying nothing. By the time the last of the shelves were dusted and the herbs sorted, the streets outside had grown quiet. Soren exhaled, rubbing his eyes. The strange heaviness in his chest hadn¡¯t left. ¡°Go home,¡± Mr. Harper¡¯s voice cut through his thoughts. ¡°You look like hell.¡± Soren blinked up at him. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Harper raised a brow. ¡°Lad, you just spent two days with a fever strong enough to make your mother pace a hole in my floorboards. Don¡¯t argue with me.¡± A pause. Soren sighed. ¡°¡­Alright.¡± Harper grunted, turning back to his notes. ¡°Get some rest. And tell Amanda to stop glaring at me whenever you look pale. I¡¯ve been an apothecary for longer than she¡¯s been alive.¡± Soren huffed a quiet laugh. It almost felt real. He nodded and stepped out into the night. The streets were emptier now, the gas lamps casting long shadows across the cobblestones. Soren kept his head down, hands shoved in his coat pockets as he walked. The air felt thicker. His thoughts kept drifting back to the alley. The sigil. The whisper. He would ignore it. That was the plan. A simple plan. Then¡ª He saw it. A single piece of parchment, caught against the cobblestones by the wind. Familiar parchment. He stopped walking. The paper fluttered against his boot, edges curling slightly. His chest tightened. Slowly, hesitantly, he bent down and picked it up. His fingers trembled as he turned it over. A single sentence was written in his own handwriting. ¡°You must not look too soon.¡± The wind whispered past him. Soren stared down at the note, blood rushing in his ears. His grip tightened. He looked around, scanning the empty street. No one. Nothing. The sigil burned in his memory. His own words¡ªhis own warning¡ªstared back at him from the page. A hollow ache settled in his chest. For the first time since waking up in this strange, familiar city¡ª He wondered if ignoring it was even possible. 4. Fractured Moments The note in his hand was real. His own handwriting. The same ink, the same style. But the words were foreign to him. > You must not look too soon. The paper was dry, crisp, as if it had been written only moments ago. Soren swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around it. The street was empty¡ªjust the flickering gaslamps, the cold evening air, the distant echo of footsteps far beyond his sight. He shouldn¡¯t be afraid. And yet, his heart was hammering against his ribs, breath coming in shallow gasps. This wasn¡¯t normal. He knew that. But he also knew that acknowledging it¡ªtruly acknowledging it¡ªwould mean accepting that something was happening to him. Something he could not explain. Soren clenched his jaw, forced himself to fold the note, and shoved it deep into his coat pocket. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. Then, without looking back, he walked home. The Blackwood house was warm, the smell of lavender and candle wax drifting faintly through the air. Tia sat curled up in a chair near the fireplace, a book resting open in her lap. The pages flickered in the firelight, and for a brief moment, Soren swore they moved on their own. His stomach twisted. He blinked, and the pages were still. Tia glanced up at him. ¡°You¡¯re home late.¡± Her voice was casual, but there was something behind it. Something hesitant. Soren shrugged off his coat, pretending not to notice. ¡°Work ran long.¡± She frowned, studying him. Then, quietly, ¡°You¡¯re different.¡± Soren exhaled sharply. ¡°You¡¯re imagining things.¡± Tia¡¯s fingers curled over the edge of her book. She didn¡¯t look convinced. He turned away before she could say anything else. That Night. Soren couldn¡¯t sleep. The shadows stretched too far in the corners of his room. The old grandfather clock ticked just a little too slowly, its rhythm uneven. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the note burning in his coat pocket across the room. He should throw it away. He shouldn¡¯t think about it. But something deep in his chest told him that he couldn¡¯t ignore it forever. At some point, exhaustion took him, and he drifted into uneasy sleep. He dreamt of the sigil. Not carved into the cobblestones. Not glowing faintly in an alleyway. No. It was in the sky. Massive, stretching across the dark heavens above Luthathel, its intricate lines glowing pale yellow, shifting like something alive. Below it, the city stood still. No people. No carriages. No sound. And standing at the very center of the empty streets, beneath the sigil¡¯s glow, was a man in a pale yellow mask. His long coat billowed, untouched by wind. He raised his hand. Soren tried to move. He couldn¡¯t. The man tilted his head, and though his face was hidden, Soren felt him watching. Then¡ªa whisper. Not from the man. From the city itself. It came from the streets, from the buildings, from the very air¡ªa voice without a mouth, a presence without a form. And it said¡ª "You are not ready to see." The dream shattered. Soren woke with a gasp. His heart pounded. Sweat clung to his skin, cold against the night air. He sat up, breathing hard, his mind racing. The dream had felt too real. The sigil. The masked man. The whisper that had come from the city itself. His fingers dug into the sheets. He couldn¡¯t ignore this anymore. Something was happening. And he had no idea how to stop it. 5. A World That No Longer Fits Morning. Soren sat at the breakfast table, the scent of black tea and warm bread filling the air. His mother was by the stove, stirring something in a pot, her back turned to him. Tia sat across from him, flipping through the pages of a book. Everything was normal. Or at least, it should have been. He hadn¡¯t mentioned the dream. He hadn¡¯t mentioned the sigil, the whisper, or the masked figure watching him from the depths of his mind. Because that¡¯s all it was¡ªa dream. It had to be. He picked up his spoon and took a slow sip of the broth. It was warm. Faintly seasoned. Tasteless. His grip on the spoon tightened. Something in his chest twisted¡ªa quiet wrongness, like a note played off-key. He forced himself to swallow. Across the table, Tia turned another page, her brow furrowing slightly. Then she spoke. ¡°Did you sleep well?¡± Her voice was light, casual. Soren glanced at her. ¡°¡­Fine.¡± Tia hummed, tapping a finger against the open page. Then, in the exact same tone, with the exact same rhythm, she repeated herself. ¡°Did you sleep well?¡± The spoon clattered against the table. His breath caught in his throat. For a moment, the room felt smaller¡ªthe edges pressing in, the gaslight flickering just a bit too slow. Tia blinked at him, waiting. Soren exhaled, shaking his head. ¡°¡­You already asked me that.¡± A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Her brow furrowed. ¡°No, I didn¡¯t.¡± The air felt heavier. Soren stared at her, heart pounding. He could still hear her voice, layered over itself, as if the words had echoed before she even spoke them. He forced himself to breathe. It was nothing. Just his mind playing tricks. ¡°Never mind,¡± he muttered, pushing back from the table. ¡°I need to get to work.¡± Tia didn¡¯t stop him. But as he walked away, he could feel her watching. Harper¡¯s Apothecary. The bell above the door chimed as Soren stepped inside, the familiar scent of dried herbs and parchment wrapping around him. The air was warmer here, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across the wooden shelves. Mr. Harper stood behind the counter, measuring powdered root into a scale. He glanced up as Soren approached, his sharp gray eyes narrowing slightly. ¡°Ah,¡± he muttered. ¡°You look better today.¡± Soren nodded. ¡°Yeah. Just a long night.¡± Harper huffed, setting down the scale. ¡°That fever of yours had your mother pacing enough to wear a hole in my floorboards. You should still be resting.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Soren lied. He needed something normal to hold onto. He grabbed a mortar and pestle from the counter and started grinding valerian root, letting the steady rhythm calm his mind. Harper studied him for a long moment. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned back to his own work. They worked in silence for a while. But as Soren reached for a bundle of herbs on the shelf, his fingers stopped just inches away. The label on the jar had changed. He frowned. The words, once neatly written in Harper¡¯s handwriting, were now smudged, warped¡ªlike ink bleeding through damp paper. The letters shifted, rearranging themselves, forming words he did not recognize. A chill crawled up his spine. He blinked. The label was normal again. Dried Nightshade. Soren inhaled sharply, his fingers trembling as he grabbed the jar and placed it on the counter. Harper glanced up at him. ¡°Something wrong?¡± Soren forced a tight smile. ¡°No. Just¡ªthought I saw something.¡± Harper didn¡¯t press. But as Soren returned to work, the unease in his chest did not fade. Evening. The streets of Luthathel stretched before him, cast in the dim glow of gaslamps. Soren walked with his hands in his coat pockets, his footsteps quiet against the cobblestones. The air was cool, the scent of rain lingering in the distance. It was peaceful. And yet, the wrongness remained. A shop that should have been there was missing. A building had changed color overnight. The street felt too long, as if it stretched a few feet farther than it should. He kept walking. The key is hidden where the veil is thinnest. The words from his journal echoed in his mind. He gritted his teeth. He wouldn¡¯t think about it. He wouldn¡¯t¡ª His steps faltered. A man stood beneath a streetlamp. Still. Motionless. His coat was dark, his hat tilted low, shadows concealing his face. Soren¡¯s chest tightened. The man was watching him. A slow, creeping dread coiled in his stomach. He didn¡¯t move. He didn¡¯t breathe. The man did not blink. Soren forced himself to keep walking. He would not acknowledge it. Not tonight. But as he turned a corner, his pulse still hammering in his ears¡ª The same man was waiting ahead of him. Standing beneath another streetlamp. Watching. Soren¡¯s breath hitched. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. This wasn¡¯t real. He turned sharply, walking faster. His house was close. He just had to keep moving. He rounded another corner¡ª And the man was there. This time, closer. Still unmoving. Still watching. Soren¡¯s blood ran cold. His legs carried him forward, faster now, nearly running. The house was just ahead. Just a few more steps. He shoved open the door, slamming it shut behind him. His breath came fast, chest rising and falling. The room was dark. The only light came from the dim glow of embers in the fireplace. Slowly, his pulse began to steady. It was fine. Everything was fine. He exhaled, resting his forehead against the door. Then¡ª A quiet knock. Soren¡¯s breath caught in his throat. The knock came again. Soft. Deliberate. He did not move. The air was too still. The shadows too deep. And then¡ªa voice. Muffled. Low. Barely a whisper through the wood. ¡°¡­Soren Blackwood.¡± His stomach dropped. That voice¡ª It wasn¡¯t his mother. It wasn¡¯t Tia. It wasn¡¯t anyone he knew. Slowly, mechanically, he turned to look through the peephole. There was no one there. But the streetlamp flickered. And for just a second¡ªjust a blink¡ª He thought he saw a yellow mask. 6. A Name That Isn鈥檛 Mine Morning. Soren stood in front of the mirror, staring at himself. The face staring back was his. But it wasn¡¯t. His dark hair was slightly tousled from sleep, his sharp features drawn tight with exhaustion. His eyes¡ªhis own, unmistakably¡ªlooked like they didn¡¯t belong. The same way the city felt a little too stretched, a little too wrong. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. It was nothing. Just a trick of the mind. Breakfast was quiet. His mother moved through the kitchen, pouring tea, arranging food, speaking only when necessary. Tia was reading again, her fingers absentmindedly tapping against the table¡¯s edge. The knock at the door last night. The voice saying his name. Soren gripped his teacup, trying to push the memory aside. It was nothing. Tia spoke suddenly. ¡°You should eat more, Rowan.¡± The cup froze halfway to his lips. His heart stopped. ¡°¡­What did you just say?¡± Tia blinked, looking up from her book. ¡°I said you should eat more.¡± ¡°No.¡± His voice came out quieter than he intended. ¡°You called me something else.¡±The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. A pause. Tia frowned, tilting her head slightly. ¡°I didn¡¯t.¡± The room felt smaller. The shadows in the corners stretched just a little farther than they should. His mother, silent until now, finally spoke. ¡°Are you feeling unwell again?¡± Soren stared at her. Did she not hear it? Did she not notice? His fingers dug into his palm beneath the table. ¡°No,¡± he said after a moment. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± Tia smiled slightly, returning to her book. Soren forced himself to keep eating. Harper¡¯s Apothecary. The bell above the door chimed as Soren stepped inside. The air smelled the same. The same dried herbs, the same candle wax, the same faint hint of something metallic. Mr. Harper stood behind the counter, examining a vial of dark liquid against the light. His usual gray coat was slightly wrinkled, his expression one of quiet focus. Soren exhaled, stepping forward. ¡°Morning.¡± Harper froze. His grip on the vial tightened. Slowly, too slowly, he turned to look at Soren. For a moment, his sharp gray eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then¡ªhis brows furrowed. ¡°Can I help you?¡± Soren¡¯s breath caught in his throat. ¡°¡­What?¡± Harper frowned deeper. ¡°Do you need something?¡± The world tilted. Soren stared at him, pulse hammering. ¡°It¡¯s me,¡± he said, his voice uneven. ¡°It¡¯s Soren.¡± Harper¡¯s expression remained unreadable for a second too long. Then, as if something clicked back into place, his face relaxed. ¡°Ah.¡± His lips curled into a faint smirk. ¡°Right. Long night, lad?¡± Soren forced a laugh. It came out wrong. Something about the moment felt fractured, like two pieces of a conversation that didn¡¯t quite fit together. He knew Mr. Harper. He had worked here for years. But for one terrifying second¡ª Harper hadn¡¯t recognized him. And Soren didn¡¯t know why. The Streets of Luthathel. Soren walked quickly. His breath was uneven, hands clenched in his coat pockets. The city pressed in on him, the buildings towering just a little higher than before, the gaslamps flickering against the thickening fog. Harper¡¯s reaction. Tia calling him a name that wasn¡¯t his. The way everything felt slightly off-center, like reality had been misaligned. His footsteps echoed strangely. He turned a corner, heading toward home¡ª And nearly ran into himself. His own reflection stood in the glass of a shop window. But it wasn¡¯t a reflection. Because the other him was facing the wrong direction. Soren froze. The man in the glass stood facing the street, hands tucked in his coat pockets. His face was shadowed, but his posture was identical to Soren¡¯s. A shiver crawled up his spine. Slowly, carefully, Soren raised a hand. The reflection did not move. His chest tightened. A deep, heavy silence settled over the street. The gaslamps flickered in unison. The reflection slowly, so painfully slowly, turned its head toward him. Soren stumbled backward, heart hammering. The moment he blinked¡ª The reflection was gone. The shop window was empty. His breathing came sharp and ragged. It wasn¡¯t real. It wasn¡¯t real. The street felt longer now. The buildings too tall, too narrow. Soren forced himself to move. He walked quickly, refusing to look into any more windows. He did not turn around. He did not check if someone was watching. Because if he did¡ªhe wasn¡¯t sure what he would see.