Chapter 1 The Watcher with the Amber Eyes

The mirror was gone.

The boy was gone.

But something inside Ariella had split quietly, like paper tearing in the rain.

She stood beneath the willow tree long after the world moved on. The wind picked at her coat, tugged her hair like a whispering child. Her fingers ached, and her lips trembled with a song she hadn't sung yet.

She looked down.

A feather.

Not from a pigeon, but long, thin, and dark as moonless velvet - humming with warmth.

She bent to pick it up. It hummed louder.

The moment her fingers touched it, the streetlight behind her bloomed with golden fire - not a flicker, but a blooming pulse, like a heartbeat made of stars.

And the world stilled.

When she turned, a man was watching her.

Not close. Not far. He stood beneath the café awning, dressed like a poet: coat too long, scarf too bright, face sharp as a crow's shadow. His eyes were amber, not brown - like molten glass poured over secrets.

He didn't blink.

He didn't smile.

He just raised a gloved hand, two fingers only, and tilted it once - not a wave, not a greeting. A warning. A signal.

Ariella didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Then he turned and walked away, vanishing into the steam of the bakery next door.

Later that night, she sat on her rooftop beneath the old satellite dish, knees to her chest, that strange feather in her hand. Her earphones were silent. Her mother was humming inside, unaware of the change outside their walls.

She closed her eyes and whispered:

"The song is dying..."

And the wind answered back:

"Not if you remember."

Her phone buzzed. A new number.

No message.

Just a name:

"The Guild of the Hollow Note"

And a location:

"Midnight. The door beneath the bridge."

Somewhere deep in the city, pigeons flinched in their sleep.

And far below Ariella's rooftop, the mirror's pieces were gathering. Not by hand. Not by wind. But by memory