“I ignored a drunk boy waving a stained napkin.”
Half the square turns to watch. Festival entertainment arrives early this year.
Sylvi spots me. Her eyes narrow. She points dramatically.
“Roseth understands deadlines.”
I freeze mid-arrangement. Betrayal arrives in many forms. This one wears bright skirts.
Brohm follows her gaze. His expression softens a fraction. “Morning, Rose.”
“Please don’t drag me into this,” I say.
Sylvi plants her hands on her hips. “He refuses to expand distribution for peak festival traffic.”
“Because peak festival traffic nearly killed my workers last year.” he speaks hoarsely.
“You have workers. I have volunteers and panic.”
“Your volunteers spend more time gossiping than working.” he shoots back.
She gasps “They gossip while working.”
“They gossip while drinking my ale!”
The argument swells again. Words fly. Accusations spark. Somewhere in the chaos I manage to finish arranging the stall. Bells gleam in early sunlight. Their quiet presence steadies my breathing.
A shadow falls across the display.
The world narrows to silence.
Tall, cloaked, still as carved obsidian. The hood hides most of his face, though pale hair slips forward in silver strands. The air feels different around him, thinner somehow, like the moment before thunder breaks.
Seven years of stolen glances fail to prepare me.
He does not greet me. Never has.
Gloved fingers lift one bell from the display. A small bronze travel bell. Simple shape and a clear tone.
The same choice every year.
He strikes it gently with the wooden striker.
The note blooms bright and warm. The sound settles into the hollow spaces inside my ribs. His shoulders drop a fraction. Relief flickers through the stillness of his posture.
That tiny shift always startles me. Every year.
He places coins on the table. Exact amount. Never bargaining.
“Thank you,” I manage.
His head tilts slightly. A silent acknowledgement.
This is the part where he leaves. It has always been the part where he leaves.
He does not move.
The square buzzes around us. Sylvi still shouts. Brohm still argues. Somewhere a violin begins tuning. The world continues. He remains.
