Chapter Text
Mikaela woke to the sound of birdsong and the faint, lingering scent of rain.
Soft light filtered through the lace curtains, casting pale shapes across the wooden floor. The window was fogged with dew, its glass catching the glow of the early morning like a memory not yet fully formed.
For a moment, he stayed still. Listening. Breathing. The world felt unusually hushed, as though it was holding something in its hands, waiting for him to notice.
And then he saw it—the letter.
It sat neatly on the edge of his bedside table. Untouched. Ordinary, if not for the way it hadn’t been there the night before. And for the way it carried the scent of sea-salt, sharp and briny and unmistakable, even though the ocean was hours away.
It had been a few days since the first letter appeared.
At first, Mikaela had tried to convince himself it wasn’t real. That it had been a dream, or a trick of sleep and moonlight. Because, after all—letters didn’t just appear in quiet upstairs bedrooms. Not in real life.
And yet.
Here it was. As real as the cardigan draped across his chair. As real as the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.
He reached for the letter, then stopped. His fingers hovered above it like they might disturb something delicate. Something sleeping.
Lately, everything had started to feel strange.
Not in any frightening way—just... quietly different. Like the world had taken a half-step to the left, and nobody else had noticed.
He’d catch himself staring at the mirror in his room for no reason. Sometimes, just for a breath, he thought he saw something shift inside it. Not his own reflection. Not even the room.
Something else.
Something distant and soft and alive.
It always disappeared before he could be sure. Like catching the scent of lilacs in the middle of winter. Or the hush of wind on a still summer afternoon.
Mikaela glanced at the clock and sighed.
Time moved on, even when it felt like it shouldn't.
He slipped into his worn cat slippers, pulled on his knitted cardigan, and padded softly down the stairs to the kitchen. The teapot was already half-full on the stove—he didn’t remember filling it the night before, but sometimes that happened. The body remembered what the mind forgot.
As he waited for the water to boil, he looked out the rain-streaked window.
The world outside was still. The kind of stillness that felt like a held breath. As if something was listening. Or waiting.
Then, without warning, a memory stirred.
A dream.
The boy again.
Just fragments—hands reaching through fog, the warmth of another presence, a voice like wind through leaves. And yet the face was always out of reach. The more Mikaela tried to recall it, the more it slipped away.
It was the feeling that stayed with him.
Familiar. Longing. Like something he was supposed to remember but had somehow left behind.
He furrowed his brow and held his tea close, letting the steam kiss his face.
Before he could fall too deeply into the ache of not-knowing, the bell above the shop door rang.
A soft chime. Gentle, but clear.
Mikaela blinked, startled, and moved toward the counter.
An old woman stood in the doorway.
She wore a dark blue raincoat and a knitted red scarf wrapped neatly around her neck. Her boots were soaked, her coat glistening with rain. A small puddle had already begun to collect beneath her feet.
The old woman stepped further inside, the bell above the door giving a soft, lingering chime behind her as though it too was reluctant to let her go. Rain dripped gently from the hem of her coat, forming slow, silver puddles across the wooden floor.
Mikaela gave a polite smile and moved toward the counter.
“Good morning,” he said, voice still wrapped in sleep. “You’re soaked. Please, take your time.”
The woman offered a grateful nod, unwinding her scarf from around her neck with practiced care. Her fingers were wrinkled, bird-thin and delicate, but moved with the certainty of someone who had lived many years and read many books.
She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she wandered slowly between the shelves, trailing one hand lightly along the book spines as if greeting old friends. Mikaela didn’t press her. Some customers came in just for the quiet, and that was alright with him.
The kettle clicked off in the kitchen behind him.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked softly.
The woman glanced up. Her eyes were light grey, like skies before snow. “If it’s no trouble.”
Mikaela poured the tea into two ceramic mugs and brought them out. The old woman sat gracefully in the window nook, her soaked coat folded over the back of the chair, her scarf gently steaming near the radiator.
Mikaela sat across from her in the mismatched chair that had always creaked in the same place. He didn’t usually sit with customers, but something about her made it feel natural. Like the space between them had already been made.
He handed her the cup, and she accepted it with a quiet hum of thanks. For a while, they both simply sat there. The rain outside had softened to a drizzle, tapping against the window like a lullaby.
“You run this place alone?” she asked finally, blowing on her tea.
He nodded. “It was my uncle’s. He passed it down to me when he moved abroad.”
She tilted her head, considering him. “You seem like someone who takes care of quiet things.”
Mikaela wasn’t sure what to say to that. He simply smiled, small and unsure.
“This is a good blend,” she said after her first sip. “Lavender and Earl Grey?”
He blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”
She smiled down into her cup, as though the answer was too simple to explain. “Lavender always softens the sharp edges.”
They sat for a moment in quiet.
Outside, the rain tapped gently on the windows and ran in long silver trails down the glass. The smell of wet pavement and warm tea leaves hung gently in the air.
“Not many people out on days like this,” she murmured, her gaze drifting to the grey beyond the glass. “Only those who are looking for something.”
Mikaela tilted his head. “And what are you looking for?”
She gave a small, dry laugh. “Oh, I don’t look anymore. I just listen now. Listening tells you more than seeking ever will.”
She turned to face him fully. “But you... I think you’ve been hearing something, haven’t you?”
Mikaela stiffened just slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she said softly, “you’ve been listening. To things that don’t speak in words. To the silence between the hours. To dreams you don’t fully remember when you wake up.”
He stared at her.
“I’ve seen that look in the mirror,” she said. “The one you have right now. Like you’re searching for something you’re not sure exists.”
A soft chill trickled down his spine. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I...” He glanced away. “I’ve just been tired lately. And... dreaming weird things, I guess.”
“Dreams are letters, too,” she said, wrapping her hands tighter around her mug. “Not always meant for the waking world, but sometimes—sometimes—they get through.”
He didn't know what to say.
The woman reached into the basket she carried and pulled out a thin, weathered volume. Its cover was worn leather, stitched at the edges with faded thread. The title was nearly rubbed away, but he caught the glimmer of silver print: "The Clockfish and Other Reflections.”
His fingers brushed the edge of the book without thinking. “Where did you find this?”
“Used to be mine,” she said. “But some books want to travel again before they grow too heavy with dust.”
She looked around the shop with an almost wistful air, as though she’d been there before, long ago, in a different life. Her gaze settled on the tall oak shelf in the back corner.
“I remember that bookshelf,” she said.
Mikaela blinked. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. It’s always leaned to the left like that. Your uncle tried to fix it once, but bookshelves don’t like being corrected.”
Mikaela felt a sudden warmth in his throat. “You knew my uncle?”
“I know many people,” she replied cryptically, and sipped her tea again. “And I forget just as many. Memory is a strange thing. You lose names, but keep the shape of someone’s kindness. You forget faces, but remember the way they made tea. Isn’t that odd?”
“It’s... true,” Mikaela said softly.
Her voice lowered.
“Sometimes we remember people we haven’t even met yet.”
That silenced him. His heart gave a quiet, uneasy flutter.
She looked down at the book in her lap at last and passed it across the table. “This should go with you now.”
He took it carefully, almost reverently.
He turned it over in his hands, thumbing open a few pages. The font was old, elegant. On the inside cover, there was an inscription in dark green ink:
“Some reflections show more than just the self.”
— Y.
Mikaela’s heart skipped. It wasn’t the letter—but something in the handwriting curled familiarly into his ribs, like the echo of a voice you couldn’t quite remember but still missed.
“Do you believe in other worlds, Mikaela?” she asked, just as he touched the leather cover.
He looked up sharply.
She met his eyes, utterly calm.
“Other realities. Ones you can’t walk to, or fly to, or read about in guidebooks. Places that reach for you only when something in you stirs. You’ve felt it, haven’t you?”
He opened his mouth, but no words came.
“I think you’ve already heard the call,” she said gently. “But you haven’t answered yet.”
And just like that, she stood.
She gathered her scarf, her coat, and the empty mug. Mikaela rose as well, but he felt oddly off-balance, like the air had shifted beneath him.
She moved toward the door without hurry, and as she opened it, the chime above the door let out its soft bell-tone once more.
The street was still grey and quiet. The rain had lessened to a silver mist.
She paused in the doorway and turned back to him with a strange, distant smile.
“You should open those letters, Mikaela.”
His blood ran cold.
He hadn’t told her his name.
Then, just like that, she disappeared into the fog. The bell chimed softly behind her, and the street was swallowed by silver mist.
The shop was quiet. The faint drip of rain from the roof filled the silence. Mikaela stood there for a long moment, the words echoing in his chest, a thread pulling at something he couldn’t yet name.
Night had fallen completely. The shop was dim now, lit only by the warm glow of a single lamp by the counter. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets outside slick and shining, reflecting the scattered amber lights.
Mikaela changed into his pyjamas, the soft fabric brushing against his skin, and settled into the chair by the window. The letter she had left on the counter lay before him, its edges curling slightly from the damp air. He picked it up, tracing the handwriting with a fingertip, feeling the weight of it in his chest.
His pen hovered over a small slip of paper. How could he respond to words that felt like whispers from a half-remembered dream?
Slowly, deliberately, he wrote:
I don’t remember you,
but I want to.
He folded the note and placed it carefully beneath the mirror by the door, just as he had seen the woman gesture earlier.
Sitting back, he let the quiet of the night seep in around him. The lamp’s light fell in gentle pools on the wooden floor, and the faint scent of rosemary lingered in the air. Somewhere out there—somewhere beyond his room, beyond the edges of sleep and shadow—someone was waiting. And he felt, for the first time that day, the tiniest spark of certainty that he would find them.