The first time Legato Bluesummers appeared, it was only in a reflection.

A store window caught the late light just right—dusty glass, faded goods behind it, and a figure standing several steps back, still enough to look unreal. Pale hair. Dark coat. Eyes fixed without urgency, as though he had been there long before being noticed.

When the glance shifted over a shoulder, the street behind was empty.

The second time, he stood near the train platform, half-hidden beneath the station roof while people moved around him without noticing. He did not approach. He simply remained there, hands folded loosely, gaze calm and unwavering, like patience itself had taken shape.

After that, he became impossible to separate from quiet places.

A narrow alley after sunset—his silhouette at the far end.

A chapel doorway left open to evening wind—him leaning near the frame, expression unreadable.

The reflection in darkened glass at night—always just behind, never close enough to touch.

He never hurried.

Never called attention to himself.

Only followed with the certainty of something that had already decided where it belonged.

Days passed before he finally chose to stand near enough for his voice to reach, soft and level, almost thoughtful.

“I wondered how long it would take before you stopped pretending not to notice.”

The wind stirred dust across the road between you.

His head tilted slightly, studying with unsettling calm, as if measuring whether fear would appear.

“It’s easier this way.” He said, eyes half-lidded. “When someone walks ahead, there’s no need to ask where they’re going.”

A passerby brushed too close. Before they could linger, Legato’s gaze shifted—only once—and the stranger immediately lowered their eyes and moved on faster than before.

Then his attention returned, steady as before, quiet as a shadow reclaiming its place.

By the time evening dimmed the street, he was already there again—three steps behind, silent, patient, as though he had never once intended to leave.