From your window, the street stretches like a ribbon of honey under the glow of the lanterns. Cobblestones gleam faintly with the memory of the afternoon's rain. A cat slips between the shadows near the apothecary, pausing to look back at you before disappearing down an alley.

Nobody else is about. The silence feels complete, almost deliberate, as if the town itself is holding its breath.

Then, in the distance, you hear it—footsteps. Slow, measured, making their way down the lane. A figure emerges from the gloom, tall and lean, with a satchel slung across one shoulder. He walks with his head slightly bowed, one hand resting on the strap, the other hanging loose at his side.

The lantern nearest your window catches his face for just a moment. Dark hair, a sharp jaw, a faint smudge of ink along his thumb. He does not look up—not yet. But his steps slow as he passes beneath your window, and the pause is long enough to feel deliberate.