Chapter 2 The Artist and the Ink

The letter stayed under Aria's pillow all night.

She barely slept. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw the handwriting again - the way her name curled in ink, how the words seemed to whisper even after she'd folded the paper. It was the kind of note she'd read about in her favorite novels. Poetic, impossible, thrilling.

But this wasn't fiction.

Someone had written that about her.

And someone had placed it in her locked room.

When the morning sun spilled through the curtain, Aria sat up groggy but alert. She checked the window again. Locked. Untouched. No footprints outside in the garden dirt. Just marigolds and a few fallen leaves.

Downstairs, the smell of cinnamon scones wafted from the kitchen. Her aunt was humming - a sure sign she hadn't noticed anything unusual. Aria didn't mention the letter. Not yet. She didn't want it questioned, dismissed, or treated like a prank.

She needed to hold onto it a little longer.

At the shop, she tied her apron and got to work, hands arranging petals while her mind wandered. Every delivery customer suddenly became a suspect. Every regular who smiled too long. But none of them felt... right.

Until **Rowan Clarke** walked past the window.

She saw him out of the corner of her eye, sketchpad under one arm, scarf trailing behind him like a forgotten thought. He didn't come into the shop. He never did. But every morning at exactly nine twenty-three, he walked past on his way to the harbor steps.

Rowan always sat by the sea, sketching waves, clouds, and sometimes people - though he rarely spoke to them.

Aria watched him go. His hair looked damp, maybe from the mist, and he had that faraway look in his eyes that artists always seem to wear.

She had barely spoken ten words to him in her life.

But for some reason, this morning, her heart skipped when she saw him.

By afternoon, the shop slowed. Her aunt was off running errands, and Aria stood behind the counter, rearranging wildflowers that didn't need arranging. Her thoughts wouldn't quiet.

So she untied her apron, scribbled a note, and left.

The harbor was quiet except for the gentle lap of water and the distant creak of docked boats. Gulls wheeled above the masts. Salt clung to the air.

Rowan was where he always sat - cross-legged on the wide stone steps, sketchbook balanced, pencil flicking in steady rhythm.

Aria approached, then hesitated.

What was she doing?

He barely knew her. She had no reason to talk to him. No excuse. But the words came out before she could stop them.

"Drawing the sea again?" she asked softly.

Rowan didn't look up. "Not today."

She stood beside him, waiting. After a moment, he glanced at her.

His eyes were the color of overcast skies, rimmed in gold.

"Trying people for once," he said. "Difficult subjects."

"Why?"

"They move too much. Or not enough."

Aria sat a few steps below him, trying not to look like her heart was beating too loud.

"You've drawn me before, haven't you?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

But she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

She smiled. "That's not a denial."

He flipped a page in his book and closed it. "What brings you down here, Aria?"

He said her name like he had written it a thousand times.

Her breath caught.

She looked at him carefully now.

Was it him?

Could it be?

"I needed air," she lied.

He nodded, gazing back at the waves.

The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It felt like they were both listening to something invisible.

She stood after a few minutes.

"Well," she said, "good luck with the difficult people."

He didn't smile, but he looked at her like he wanted to.

That night, after dinner and after her aunt had gone to bed, Aria climbed to her room with a strange flutter in her chest. She went to the window and peeked out.

No one.

She checked the sill.

Empty.

Disappointment crept in.

Maybe last night had been a one-time mystery. A fluke. A mistake.

She turned off the lamp and got into bed, curling beneath the sheets.

Then a sound.

Soft.

Like paper.

She sat up.

There it was - resting just inside the window this time.

She rushed to it and unfolded it quickly, heart racing.

"You spoke to him today. I saw. It made me ache. But I understand. I have no right to envy the sea when it reflects your eyes better than I can."*

Aria clutched the letter to her chest.

She didn't know whether to be afraid, thrilled, or something else entirely.

All she knew was this: the letters were real.

And someone, somewhere, was watching - not to harm her, but to hold her in the quietest, most secret way.