NORTH POV

“Achoo!”

That made five.

I sniffled, dragging the back of my wrist across my nose, cursing whatever invisible dust gods ruled over the dark corners of old bookstores.

“You alright, North?” came a warm, weathered voice from behind the front counter.

I turned slightly to see Ms. Ayu, the elderly librarian who had worked in this shop longer than I’d been alive. Her thick glasses sat crooked on her nose, her cardigan three shades older than fashion would allow—but her voice always held a sort of maternal concern that made me feel oddly cared for.

“I’m okay,” I replied with a sheepish grin. “Just the books trying to kill me again.”

She chuckled, a dry, papery sound like the rustle of worn pages.

“Then maybe sneeze less dramatically,” she said with a wink before returning to her crossword puzzle. “You’re scaring off the dust.”

I rolled my eyes playfully and turned back to the towering shelf in front of me, a precarious stack of books balanced on one hip. My arms ached. My nose itched. My brain felt like it had been stuffed full of obscure post-structuralist nonsense all day. And yet—

There was something peaceful about it all.

The hushed stillness of the bookshop. The soft tap of my shoes against the worn wooden floor. The way the air always smelled like paper, tea, and time.
It was quiet here. Predictable.

A kind of order the world outside didn’t offer.

Still, something felt off today. Something beneath the surface.
Like the tension in the air before a thunderstorm.
Like I was being watched, even when I wasn’t.

I brushed it off. Just exhaustion. Or nerves. Or both.

The sky outside the wide shopfront window had shifted to a heavy, melancholy gray. Clouds churned lazily overhead like spilled ink, blotting out the sun.

The rain would come soon.
It always did this time of year.

I paused for a moment and leaned against the edge of the shelf, glancing toward the street. People hurried past—umbrellas in hand, collars turned up, heads low.

It was one of those moments where the world seemed far away, like a painting behind glass. Everything looked slightly muted, slightly unreal.

I sighed and turned away, wiping a damp ring off a nearby table. The place had emptied out after lunch, leaving behind only the faint smell of pastries from the café corner and the distant buzz of the ceiling lights.

Break time.

God, I needed it.

I grabbed my earphones, wrapped in a tangled mess like always, shoved them into my ears, and dropped down onto the worn loveseat tucked in the farthest corner of the library. It was my usual spot—half-hidden behind a tall display of classic poetry collections. No one ever came back here. That’s why I liked it.

I set my lunch down carefully—a bent steel bento box, slightly too warm to hold—and pulled out a pair of chopsticks.

With music in my ears and warm rice in my hands, the world finally, finally, slowed down.

University had drained me today.
A double lecture block in Critical Literary Theory, followed by a seminar on queer narratives in Southeast Asian literature.
Interesting? Yes.
Mentally annihilating? Absolutely.

And now, six hours later, I was restocking dusty shelves while fighting off an increasingly suspicious cold.

Totally worth the scholarship, I thought wryly, chewing slowly on a slice of soy-glazed tofu.

Still, there was a rhythm to it all. A balance.

Books.
Work.
Solitude.
I knew my place in the chaos.
And I liked it that way.

Halfway through lunch, I paused.
I felt it again.

A chill at the back of my neck.

Not cold.

Not wind.

Something... else.

I took one earphone out.
Listened.
Only silence.

No footsteps. No voices. Just the low, constant hum of fluorescent lighting and the ticking of the clock near the register.

Weird.

I turned slightly, pretending to stretch, my eyes sweeping the main floor.

Nothing unusual.

Just Ms. Ayu at her counter. A couple reading by the window. A girl asleep over a manga near the graphic novels.

Still...

That feeling of being observed lingered.

I pushed it down, returned my focus to lunch, and tried to breathe evenly.

I was just tired.

Probably.

The library closed a few hours later. I helped stack the chairs, wiped down the tables, and swept near the front door. Ms. Ayu handed me my pay in a crumpled envelope, like always, and offered me an extra green tea Kit-Kat from her drawer.

“Don’t burn yourself out, dear,” she said gently.

I smiled. “No promises.”

The sky had turned darker by the time I stepped outside. The rain had finally arrived—soft, misting drizzle that coated the pavement in silver.

I pulled my hoodie tighter around me and started walking.

There weren’t many people out. A few passing cars. Someone dragging a suitcase. The faint sound of a bus approaching from around the corner.

I should’ve waited under the awning. But something compelled me to keep moving.

And then—

A flicker in the corner of my eye.

A tall figure across the street. Leaning casually against a lamppost. Smoking.

I couldn’t see his face. Just the posture. Calm. Still. Watching.

My heart skipped.

When I blinked, he was gone.

The next day at the bookstore, nothing unusual happened.

But I checked the window more than once.

And every time I sneezed, I felt like someone was laughing quietly, just out of sight.

Later that week, I sat on campus alone, rereading a chapter from  the tempest. A shadow passed over the page. My eyes darted up—

Just a bird overhead.

Not a man in a black coat.

Not a smoker.

Not... him.

I shook my head.

Him?

What the hell was I even thinking?

There was no him.

And yet…

That moment at the bus stop, days ago, still haunted me.

The stranger I’d collided with in my rush.

The way our eyes met.

The way the air froze between us, like the world forgot how to move.

It wasn’t fear I felt.

It wasn’t desire either.

It was something… older. Something buried.

Recognition?

Or warning?

I never got his name.
Never saw him again.

But sometimes—
Late at night, when I walked home alone, or stared too long at the rain-soaked city—
I swore I could feel something brushing close.

Not touching. Just… hovering.

Like a shadow waiting for permission to cross into the light.

I don’t know who he is.
But I know he’s not done with me.