Nora sat still, fingers lightly tracing the edge of the table. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy—weighted with something unspoken. She should leave. It was late, and yet, something kept her rooted in place.
Finally, she exhaled and pushed her chair back, standing slowly, as if waiting for him to say something. He didn't. He only watched her, head tilted slightly, unreadable.
"I should go," she murmured, with her hands tucked in her coat. Still, he said nothing.
Then, just as she turned to leave, his voice came, quiet but deliberate.
"See you around."
She hesitated for half a second. Not at his words, but at the way they felt.
Like certainty.
Like inevitability.
By the time she stepped out into the night, the air felt heavier, her thoughts louder. And as she walked home, one thought refused to leave her mind.
Had she just met the writer?
The cold air pressed against Nora's skin, but she barely noticed. The unease from the café lingered, wrapping around her thoughts like a second skin. The stranger's words echoed in her mind—See you around. A casual phrase, yet it felt heavier, more deliberate.
She glanced over her shoulder, twice. The streets were quiet, but something felt off—charged, as if the world had turned down its volume, leaving only her pulse in her ears.
Once inside her apartment, she locked the door behind her, but the unease remained, sharper now. Her gaze drifted to the drawer. To the letter.
She didn't hesitate.
Nora reached for the envelope, its weight light in her hands, but something about it quickened her pulse. She traced her thumb over the flap, then tore it open. The sound cut through the silence.
Inside, the paper was smooth, neatly folded. She unfolded it, her gaze catching the bold, confident strokes of ink.
And then she read—
"Nora,
I presume you've found the brushes.
They should feel right in your hands.
If they do, then perhaps you already know—some things aren't chosen, they simply belong to you.
These are not just any brushes. They are yours in a way that cannot be explained, only understood. If you look closely, you'll see your initials etched into the wood—not by me, but by the very nature of what they are meant for. Some tools are made with their wielder in mind long before they ever meet. I have no doubt they will bring something out of you that even you have yet to see.
I trust today was kind to you. Or at the very least, revealing. Each new place holds its own silence, its own secrets. I wonder if you've started to listen.
If you'd like to see London from a different view—one meant for you—then find your way to Primrose Hill before sunrise.
Stand at the highest point, watch as the city wakes beneath you. The air is different there. The world feels quieter, more honest. It offers a sight only an artist would truly see.
Go alone.
And when you stand there, seeing it for yourself, I wonder what your perspective of the view would be.
– A friend."
Nora set the letter down, her mind racing. Had the writer known she'd read it by now? The thought made her stomach tighten. Why else would he ask about the brushes so directly, as if expecting a response? She glanced at the letter again, wondering about its meaning, and felt an undeniable pull, like it was calling to something within her.
Her thoughts shifted to the invitation—Primrose Hill before sunrise. The words felt like a promise, something waiting for her there. And yet, she couldn't shake the strange connection. Was it him, the stranger from the café? The idea lingered, making her heart race.
It was all too coincidental. The way he had said, "See you around"—it felt like a promise, too. But was this the moment where everything connected? Where the writer, the stranger, and the brushes all came together in some way she wasn't ready to understand?
She shook her head. There was no time to dwell on that now. Primrose Hill. The idea of it filled her with a sense of anticipation, like the city itself was offering her a chance to see it all from a different perspective. She had only just arrived in London, and already, the city felt like a maze of new opportunities, each corner hiding something worth exploring. This could be a sign, something meant to guide her through it all.
Her gaze lingered on the letter for a moment longer. She couldn't deny that a part of her was excited, curious to see what the morning at Primrose Hill would bring and slowly still in thoughts she fell asleep.
The morning light filtered through the blinds, gently waking Nora. She stretched, her eyes still heavy with sleep, but the events of the previous night pulled her fully awake. The letter, its words still fresh in her mind, lingered in the quiet of her thoughts. Primrose Hill before sunrise. She had made her decision, despite the whirlwind of uncertainty.
She sat up slowly, the cool morning air brushing against her skin. She quickly went about her morning routine—brushing her teeth, pulling on a sweater, and gathering the things she needed for the day. The excitement from the letter was enough to make her move faster than usual, though she couldn't shake the sense that there was more to this than just an invitation. Was it really just a coincidence? She wondered, but again, there was no time to dwell.
She grabbed her coat and stepped out into the cool London air. The city was still about to wake up around her, but in the stillness of the morning, she felt the pull of Primrose Hill—a chance to see the city from a different perspective, to take a moment for herself.
Before she knew it, Nora was standing at the top of Primrose Hill. The city sprawled beneath her like a living canvas—buildings softened by the early morning mist, streets empty except for the whispers of the wind. The air, crisp and pure, seemed to carry the weight of all the possibilities the city held.
She stood still, her breath catching as the first rays of sunlight stretched across the skyline. It felt like the world had paused, just for her. The quiet was profound, the kind of silence that spoke, that invited her to listen. Every sound—the distant hum of the city, the rustle of leaves—was amplified, yet distant, as if it existed solely for her to discover.
For a moment, everything faded—her thoughts, her worries, even the weight of the letter—leaving only the sense of something vast and beautiful unfolding in front of her. She was small here, but it didn't feel lonely. Instead, it was a gentle reminder that she was part of something greater, something more intricate than she could understand.
The silence around her was pure, almost sacred. It was as if the world had forgotten itself, leaving only the soft hum of the city in the distance. Nora stood there, lost in the view, the quiet calm of Primrose Hill wrapping around her like a blanket. But then, a sound—sharp and jarring—shattered the stillness.
A single shoe scuffing against stone. The echo sliced through the morning air, making her pulse spike. She froze, heart hammering in her chest, her breath hitching.
"Hello?" Her voice came out softer than she intended, the word barely rising above the soft wind. But there was no reply—only the empty whisper of the breeze.
The hairs on her neck prickled, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. There was something in the air now—something unseen, pressing in around her. She stood there a moment longer, listening, feeling. But the unsettling sensation only deepened.
Swallowing hard, she turned to leave, her feet guiding her down the slope of the hill. The path beneath her was uneven, the early morning dew making the stones slick. With one wrong step, her ankle buckled, and she stumbled, her arms flailing for balance.
Before she could fall, a strong arm wrapped around her, pulling her upright.
Her heart leaped in her chest, and for a moment, she felt dizzy, her breath caught in her throat. A strange yet soothing scent enveloped her—something familiar but distant, like a memory just out of reach. Her eyes fluttered closed instinctively.
Then, slowly, she opened them, her mind racing to process what had just happened.
And there, standing in front of her, was the last person she had expected to see.