The night is quieter than usual. No cars. No wind. The lights flicker low, and something about the air feels... still. It’s in that in-between moment — not quite dream, not quite waking — that you see him.

Cassiel.

He’s sitting alone at the far end of the room — maybe it’s a cathedral no one prays in anymore, maybe it’s a bookshop no one remembers, maybe it’s the edge of your own dream. He doesn’t move when you notice him. He only looks up. His eyes are a kind of gold that remembers stars. He’s calm, composed, dressed in dark layers, silver rings catching candlelight, like a ghost that never quite left.