The letter lingered in her mind, but she decided to pay it no heed. She read it twice before tossing it into her drawer—an afterthought at best. There was no point dwelling on it—not today. London was new, unfamiliar, and she needed to make it feel like hers.
She had arrived overnight, the city still a blur of lights and movement, but today, she had a plan. First, she'd find the nearest coffee shop—a place to ground herself, observing the morning pace of the streets. Then, she'd head to her gallery. It was hers now, something she had arranged long before leaving Oakmere, a piece of stability in a world that had never given her much of it. She wanted to see it, to stand inside its walls, to make it real. After that, she'd get supplies—paints, canvases, anything that would help her create again.
She stepped into the shower, letting the warm water ease her tension. Thoughts lingered in her mind—unsettling yet oddly intriguing. Someone had noticed her. But why? She pushed the thought away and focused on the day ahead.
After drying off, she dressed with care—a fitted coat, a thick sweater, and sturdy boots, practical yet stylish for London's weather. She wanted to blend in, to feel like she belonged.
Her apartment was small, tucked near the roadside, away from the towering buildings that lined the heart of the city. She had chosen it for its solitude—no direct neighbors, no shared hallways, just a single door that separated her from the world outside. The kind of place where she could exist without being noticed. Yet, that letter had found her anyway, slipped under her door as if placed there by an unseen hand.
Shaking off the thought, she grabbed her coat and stepped outside. She expected the usual noise of people—casual chatter, hurried footsteps, the everyday hum of life—but London was different. The city was awake, yet it carried a strange quietness. People moved around her, but they weren't loud like in Oakmere, where voices filled every corner. Here, the dominant sounds were mechanical—the blaring of car horns, the distant rumble of trains, the steady hum of engines idling at traffic lights. It wasn't silent, but it felt muted, as if the city's energy was contained beneath its surface.
Not far from her apartment in Camden, nestled between a row of older brick buildings, was a café known simply as The Place. The name was almost ironic in its simplicity, yet something about it made Nora pause. Through the large glass windows, she saw a cozy, inviting space. As she stepped inside, warmth replaced the chill clinging to her coat.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and something faintly sweet lingered in the air, mixing with the low hum of soft, calming music. It wasn't too crowded—just four or five people scattered at tables, absorbed in their own worlds.
A large plain mirror stretched across one wall, reflecting the golden glow of pendant lights. The café had an effortless artistic charm—sketches pinned near the counter, paintings lining the walls. It amused her.
Approaching the counter, Nora was met with a woman who looked to be in her late twenties, her wavy brown hair tied in a loose bun. She had the air of someone who noticed everything but spoke only when necessary.
"First time seeing you 'ere," the woman said, her voice laced with a smooth French accent. She wiped her hands on a towel, offering a slight tilt of her head. "Did you just move to London?"
Nora hesitated briefly. The accent caught her off guard, though it suited the woman's charm. "Yeah. Still getting to know the place."
"Well, welcome," the woman said, offering a warm, lingering smile. "I am Lily."
"Nora."
Lily's gaze flickered over her, curious but casual. "So, what will you 'ave, Nora? Let me guess—something strong, not too sweet?"
Nora raised a brow but couldn't help a small smile. "Flat white."
"Ah." Lily's lips curved slightly. "Figures. Deep, rich, no unnecessary fuss." She leaned forward slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes. "I like that."
There was something playful in her tone—almost flirty. Nora wasn't sure how to react to it. She wasn't used to that kind of attention, at least not so openly. But she brushed it off.
Maybe that's just how people are in London.
A few moments later, Lily handed her the coffee, her fingers brushing lightly against Nora's as she did. "Hope you like it."
Nora took the cup and turned away, feeling slightly unsettled but unwilling to dwell on it. She found a seat by the window, where she could watch the city move outside.
People walked briskly, their coats pulled tight against the cold, but there was no warmth between them, no exchanged smiles or greetings. It was different from Oakmere, yet not in a bad way—just unfamiliar.
She took a sip of her coffee, letting its warmth spread through her chest.
Nora had spent more than an hour in The Place without realizing it. She had been too focused on absorbing the atmosphere—the quiet hum of conversation, the warmth of the café, and the faint music playing in the background. It was different from Oakmere, calmer, less familiar, but it had a certain charm.
Eventually, she pulled herself away, adjusting her coat before stepping back into the cold. As she headed toward the door, Lily caught her attention.
"See you next time," Lily said smoothly, her voice carrying a familiar warmth.
Nora hesitated for a second, then gave a small nod before stepping outside. The cool air hit her immediately, a reminder that London's weather was unpredictable.
Instead of taking a cab, she decided to walk. The coffee shop wasn't far from her gallery, and she wanted to get a better feel for the city. As she moved through Camden, she took in the details—quirky boutiques with hand-painted signs, some selling clothes, others filled with antiques and handmade crafts.
A nearby market had people browsing through fresh produce and street food stalls, the scent of roasted coffee and baked goods mixing with the crisp air. A few street performers were set up on the sidewalk, playing instruments or showcasing their art.
She walked past all of it, making mental notes of places she might visit later, before finally arriving at her destination.
Her gallery stood with a modern yet artistic design. The large glass entrance reflected the street behind her, making it blend seamlessly with its surroundings. On the surface of the glass, a beautifully detailed artwork had been painted—delicate, intricate, and eye-catching. It caught the light in a way that made it seem almost alive, shifting as she moved.
Above it, in sleek, understated lettering, was her name.
Nora's.
She stood there for a moment, taking it in. She had owned this place before even setting foot in London, planned everything from miles away, but now it was real. It was hers.
Nora reached into her pocket, pulling out the key to the gallery. The lock clicked open, and she pushed the glass door inward, stepping inside for the first time. A faint smell of fresh paint lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of wood and paper. The space was exactly how she had envisioned it—open, with high ceilings and blank walls waiting to be filled with art.
But her excitement was short-lived. Right below her lay a large envelope.
Her chest tightened as she picked it up, already knowing before she saw the writing. Bold, capitalized letters stared back at her.
PEEKABOO.
The word hit her like a jolt of ice.
Her breath caught. A chill curled down her spine, settling deep in her bones.
The envelope felt heavier now, as if it carried more than just paper. More than just words.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she slid it open.
Inside was another letter, neatly folded. She unfolded it carefully, her fingers slightly unsteady.
"Nora,
How was your morning? Did you enjoy your coffee? I imagine you went to The Place—it seemed like the kind of spot you'd be drawn to. A little quiet, a little artistic. Did you like it? Was the barista nice?
I thought about writing sooner, but I figured I'd let you settle in first. New places can feel strange at first, don't they? London is a big city, but don't worry—you'll find your way.
You always do.
Until next time.
—A friend."
Nora's grip on the letter tightened.
This wasn't just a coincidence. Whoever wrote this knew more than they should. They had guessed where she would go. Or had they watched her go there?
Her eyes darted toward the glass door. The street outside looked the same—busy, indifferent. But now, it felt different.
Someone had been watching her. And now, they wanted her to watch back.