The letter lay open on the table, its words unsettlingly personal.
Nora exhaled, running her thumb along the edge. Not threatening—but too familiar.
Who had written this? And more importantly—who had been watching her?
The door was still locked. The gallery untouched. Only she had the keys.
And yet, the letter had been waiting.
The envelope still had weight to it.
Reluctantly, she turned it upside down. A larger, wrapped object slipped out first, hitting the table with a soft thud. She unfolded the paper carefully.
Paintbrushes.
Expensive ones. The kind an artist would choose with care.
Her fingers hovered, then pulled away. This wasn't just a watcher—they knew her.
Her stomach tightened, but she pushed the thought aside.
She felt the second letter inside, traced its edges—but didn't open it. Not now.
Instead, she tossed the envelope onto the table, the letter slipping slightly free. Enough thinking.
Without a second thought, she grabbed her coat and left. No stranger would dictate her day.
A few streets away, Roth & Co. stood between a bookshop and a vintage boutique, its dark wood exterior and large display windows exuding old-world charm. A brass bell chimed as she entered.
Excitement replaced unease. She grabbed a cart, drawn to the scent of paint and paper. Canvases, oil paints, charcoal sticks—each item grounded her.
At the counter, an older cashier with ink-stained fingers rang up her items. His nametag read Arthur.
"First time buying in bulk?" he asked, his tone steady.
"Yeah," Nora said with a small smile. "Just settling in."
Arthur nodded, bagging her supplies with practiced ease. "Good place for artists. Camden's got life in it. You paint full-time?"
"I run a gallery," she said, the words feeling strangely surreal.
Arthur barely reacted, just gave a knowing hum. "Then you'll be back. They always come back."
Nora wasn't sure if he meant artists or something else. She didn't ask. She just paid, took her bags, and stepped back into the street.
Nora walked through Camden with quiet anticipation, the weight of her new supplies grounding her. With each step toward her gallery, excitement stirred—this wasn't just any shop; it was hers.
Unlocking the door, she stepped into the empty space, the faint scent of fresh paint lingering. The bare walls and untouched surfaces only fueled her eagerness. Setting her supplies down, she envisioned where everything would go. Soon, this place would hold pieces of her work—pieces of herself.
For the first time all day, she felt settled.
She wasted no time. With quiet focus, she unpacked, sorting through her materials, placing canvases against the wall, brushes in a holder near the window. Every item she set down felt like a step closer to making this place her own. The process was absorbing, grounding, almost meditative.
The hours had disappeared without her noticing.
It wasn't until she finally stepped back, wiping her hands on her coat, that she realized how much she had done. Even unfinished, the gallery already felt different. It was no longer just an empty space. It was hers.
Outside, the sky had deepened to navy blue, the streetlights casting a warm glow through the glass. The gallery looked just as perfect at night as it had in the daylight, and for a moment, she simply stood there, taking it in.
Then, as she reached for her bag, her fingers brushed against something unexpected.
The envelope.
She had completely forgotten about it.
The gallery had consumed her—unpacking, arranging, lost in the excitement of making it hers. Time slipped by unnoticed.
Stepping back, she admired how it looked under the night lights. And it hit her.
The second letter.
She had ignored it earlier, pushing it aside. Now, in the quiet, it felt different. Without hesitation, she slipped it into her bag, leaving the brushes on the table.
With one last glance around, she switched off the lights, locked up, and stepped outside.
The night air was crisp, Camden quieter, the hum of distant conversations and music blending into the stillness.
She walked at a steady pace, the cool air clearing her mind. The envelope sat in her bag, a quiet reminder, but she focused on the rhythm of her footsteps and the city around her.
At home, the solitude felt comforting. She set her bag down, took off her coat, and headed to the kitchen. A simple meal—just enough to satisfy her hunger and keep things normal.
As she ate, she glanced at the envelope again. The night was still young. She could read it now, end the anticipation. But instead, another thought crossed her mind.
She hadn't really experienced London at night yet.
Nora set her fork down, looking toward the door. The streets had a different pulse after dark, one she hadn't had the chance to observe. And The Place—it had been warm and full of life earlier, but what was it like now?
Curiosity pulled her to her feet.
She grabbed her coat and stepped into the night.
Camden had slowed but not slept—streetlights cast long shadows over damp pavement, and the air carried a mix of distant music, late-night chatter, and the faint aroma of grilled food. A neon sign buzzed faintly, flickering above a closed record store, while the occasional taxi rolled by, headlights sweeping across quiet storefronts.
Somewhere, laughter echoed from an alleyway, quickly swallowed by the steady murmur of the city. A breeze rustled the trees lining the pavement, their leaves whispering like secrets in the dark.
Nora took a breath, feeling the city's quiet rhythm settle around her as she walked.
When she reached The Place, its warm glow felt inviting. Through the glass, a few people lingered, their movements slower, voices softer, as if the café had settled into the night.She stepped inside, the door chiming softly behind her.
Lily looked up, smirking. "Didn't expect you back so soon."
Nora shrugged. "Wanted to see the street at night."
"And?" Lily wiped the counter.
"It's... different."
Lily nodded. "Everything is at night. You want anything?"
Nora hesitated, then shook her head. "Not yet."
Lily simply nodded and went back to her work, leaving Nora to her thoughts.
She made her way to the same seat by the window, slipping into the chair and letting her gaze wander outside. The streets looked quieter from here, the movement slower, as if the city was exhaling.
That's when she noticed him.
A man sat two tables away, sketching in a notebook. His posture was relaxed, his pencil moving with a natural rhythm. Something about him felt unbothered, like he belonged to the moment in a way few people did. He wasn't just passing time—he was existing in it.
For a while, she simply watched, the soft scratch of his pencil filling the quiet between them. Then, as if sensing her gaze, he looked up.
Their eyes met.
He didn't look away. Instead, he smiled—an easy, knowing smile, like they had already shared a conversation neither of them remembered having.
"You look like you're waiting for something," he said, tapping his pencil against the table.
Nora blinked, caught off guard but not unsettled. "And what do I look like I'm waiting for?"
He studied her for a second, then grinned. "Something important. Or maybe nothing at all."
A flicker of unease—he saw too much, too easily. She had spent years keeping people at a distance, yet he had slipped through in seconds.
A soft chuckle escaped her. "That's vague."
"So is life." He gestured toward the chair across from him. "You don't have to keep watching from a distance. Come sit."
She hesitated, resisting the pull of familiarity. There was something about him—something too at ease, too perceptive. But before she could overthink it, she was already moving.
As she sat, he closed his notebook, leaning back slightly. "So, what's the story?"
"The story?"
"Everyone has one," he said, stretching lazily. "Some people wear it on their faces. Others in the way they move. You—you carry it in your silence."
Her breath hitched. A part of her wanted to brush off the comment, turn it into a joke. But another part—the one that had spent too long being unreadable—felt exposed.
She exhaled softly, glancing down at the table before meeting his gaze again. "Maybe I'm still figuring it out."
He nodded, as if he understood something she hadn't said out loud. "That's the best part. Figuring it out."
For the first time in London, she didn't feel alone.
But as the silence stretched, something unsettled her.
The way he spoke, the way he saw through her—it felt familiar. Too familiar.
Like the letter.
Like the writer.
Could he be the stranger? The friend?
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the table. A flicker of doubt crept in, unspoken but heavy. She forced herself to hold his gaze, searching for something—anything—that would confirm or dismiss the thought.
But he only smiled, as if he already knew what she was thinking.