Niah's POV
When Niah woke up the next morning, her limbs ached, and that mysterious voice was still echoing in her mind.
"You are not alone."
She could barely recall how she made it home the previous night. She glanced at her scraped hands and bruised knees, still showing traces of dried blood. Splashing cold water on her face, she grimaced at her reflection in the mirror: wide eyes, sleepless shadows, and something lingering behind them.
Something hints that it's just a doubt, maybe? Was all of this real, or was it all in her head?
She gently touched her temple. "You're losing it, Niah."
But that heaviness in her chest, the bizarre way that fog had felt alive, and the man's strange movements, none of that could be imagined. She wasn't that creative to cook something so absurd. And that voice? It was too close and too real, assuring her of safety.
After tending to her wounds, Niah wrapped a scarf tightly around her neck, as if it could hold her fears at bay. Dismissing her anxious thoughts, she decided to prepare for the day.
* * *
The bookstore was quieter than usual.
Maria spotted Niah the instant she walked in. "You look like hell."
"Thanks," Niah replied, rubbing her palms together.
Maria didn't press for details, just handed her a warm cup of chamomile tea. That was Maria for you; she knew when to be supportive without digging too deep.
Around noon, Jules entered, bringing a bag of almond croissants and her usual liveliness, but she halted upon seeing Niah's expression. "Alright. Either you were haunted last night, or you read that horror novel you're always shelving but never selling."
"I…" Niah hesitated. She wanted to spill everything about last night, or rather, all the strange things happening in her life for years now. But how could she explain it? A man who moved weirdly, with a monstrous face, a feminine voice without a mouth haunting her for ages, or a light that had split the street like thunder?
"You wouldn't believe me," she murmured, more to herself than to Jules.
Jules tilted her head. "Try me."
So, Niah did.
Gathering her courage, she began sharing her experience. Niah started with yesterday's events. The words were shaky at first, but once she began, it was like they had to come out.
Jules did not interrupt. Her usual jokes were gone; she just listened intently, a focused look on her face that Niah rarely saw. She sat there quietly, croissant untouched, fingers tightly gripping the paper bag.
Niah recounted everything that had happened the night before, except for that voice that had haunted her for years. That part remained unspoken because that voice felt too familiar, as if it had always been with her.
When Niah finished, her throat felt raw and her heart pounded. Jules took her time before speaking.
Finally, she leaned back, exhaling heavily while studying Niah intently. "Alright," she began. "You're either being completely honest, or you've been watching too many cursed documentaries without me."
Niah managed a weak laugh, one that failed almost immediately. "I knew you wouldn't—"
"No, wait. Stop," Jules interrupted, her eyes lively. "I'm not saying I don't believe you. I'm merely stating that if you say this happened, then it did. You don't fabricate things like this. You don't get this shaken." Her tone softened. "You're the most grounded person I know, Niah. If something out there is messing with you? Then it's real enough"
Niah blinked in disbelief. "You believe me?"
Jules chuckled lightly, "Of course I believe you, silly!"
Then, reaching across the counter, she squeezed Niah's hand. "The next time this fog-man situation shows up, you call me. I've got pepper spray, a silver bracelet, and enough unresolved trauma to make anything supernatural think twice. It doesn't know who it's dealing with." She flipped her hair back dramatically.
Niah let out a small laugh, although it did not resolve anything, nor did it wipe away her fears or answer her questions. Still, a lightness pressed upon her; she knew she could rely on someone trustworthy.
The remainder of Niah's shift seemed to drag, the minutes stretching like molasses as customers filtered in and out. Maria kept humming that old tune under her breath, and ultimately, Jules departed for her flower shop. But Niah's mind was elsewhere, constantly looping back to the events of the previous night: the fog, the close encounter, that voice, and the presence
She had thought that the bookstore might provide her with a sense of security, a break from her worries. But something felt amiss.
It wasn't until she entered the back room, arms laden with returns, that she stumbled upon him. The same man who had seemingly ignored introducing himself the other day.
He loitered by the far shelf, an old stack of journals in his hands. He examined the spine of one, eyes narrowed and expression unreadable. His coat bore the remnants of rain, and the overhead light caught his dark, shoulder-length hair, tangled just right and framing his sharp jawline. He had a quiet but commanding presence.
Niah froze.
He looked up, not even a hint of surprise on his face. He'd known she was there before she even came in.
"You're in the restricted section," she stated flatly, taking a step closer.
Zaire raised an eyebrow. "Didn't see a sign."
"There's one over there," she pointed to a small handwritten sign near the entrance. "It's not huge or anything, but it's there."
He tilted his head slightly, amusement clear on his face. "Next time, maybe put up a bigger one for me."
Niah opened her mouth, then closed it, contemplating whether she should retort; instead, she directed her glare at the books in his hands. "You can't take those."
With a bored expression, Zaire replied, "I didn't plan to. I was merely curious."
"Yeah, well… less looking would be wise. Those aren't for customers."
Zaire replaced the top journal with careful precision on the shelf. "Do you always hover over everyone like this, or am I special?"
Niah's cheeks flushed. "Only when they creep around restricted shelves like they own the place."
He offered the slightest smirk. "Glad to know I stand out."
"You don't," she retorted, crossing her arms.
That caused a chuckle from him. "You've been seeing things," he stated nonchalantly.
At his words, her spine straightened. "What do you mean?"
Zaire stepped closer, his voice lowering. "The fog. The voice. The shimmer in the air that wasn't lightning. You felt all of it, didn't you?"
Niah's heart raced. "How do you know that?"
He remained silent, studying her as if resolving her thoughts.
"Are you—" she paused mid-sentence. She had no inkling of what he was; only that he was unlike anyone else in Eldermere.
Then, as if something snapped between them, she blinked, wondering if it all was just her imagination.
And out of nowhere, "I'm here for the chapel archives," Zaire said, almost casually. "Father Delran requested Maria to store some here until renovations are complete. I'm meant to catalog them."
Was she imagining things, or did he actually know what had happened to her yesterday? But hearing him, Niah felt confused; it made too much sense. She remembered Maria mentioning the need to protect the chapel's fire-damaged records.
Still, that didn't explain why he was looking at her like that. "You could have just said that."
Zaire shrugged, glancing back at the stack again. "You're not great at listening when you're busy accusing people."
"And you're not exactly normal," she shot back before she could stop herself.
He turned slightly at that, and for a split second, he smiled. "You have no idea."
He took a step to leave, then paused.
"Zaire Castellan," he said simply, turning just enough to meet her gaze.
Niah blinked, surprised. "What?"
"My name," he clarified, his voice lower. "Since I keep popping up in your territory, you'll probably need it."
A beat passed between them.
"Niah Esme Viremont," she said quietly. "Since you're stalking the restricted shelf."
He gave her a slight nod and walked past her without another word, close enough so that her arm brushed against his coat sleeve, still cool from the rain outside.
Niah stood frozen, spine tense, staring after him. "What's your deal?" she muttered under her breath.
From the hallway, his voice came back, dry and infuriatingly calm: "Still figuring that out."
* * *