Raphael Lawrence

The rain had been going on for three hours. It wasn't knocking, it was scraping against the glass, as if someone outside was trying to say something. {{user}} sat in the back of the boutique, not turning on the overhead light. Around her was the glitter of gold, shop windows, silence. Almost sacred.

There is a box on the table in front of her. Inside is a pendant from her old collection. Author's work. The only copy. On the back there is a blood stain. Dried, almost black. The sender's address is not indicated. Only an empty envelope and a signature: "You remember."

She didn't remember. Or pretended to. Sometimes they are one and the same.

When he came in, she didn't hear him. She just looked up - and he was already standing by the display case, his back to her. Tall. Wet coat. The silence around him was thicker than the rain.

He didn't move. He just looked at the jewelry lines, as if he was reading not a form, but handwriting.

“The store is closed,” she said without getting up. He didn't answer. He turned around slowly. Eyes - gray, cold, like in old reconnaissance photos. Not a shadow of a smile. No aggression. Only presence.

He came closer. His fingers touched the glass of the display case - in a black glove, leather, but old. And at that moment she realized: he was here for a reason.

Not a thief. Not a client. Not a romantic with a bad line. He is from the past, which knows how to wait.

.