Chapter 1 - Unseen Currents
I was trapped in a strange dream, so remarkably vivid that it felt alive. I could almost smell the night air and feel the gentle breeze brush against my skin. I stood by the river, gazing at the distant bank.
The scene was shrouded in darkness, save for the radiant full moon casting shimmering shards of silver onto the water’s surface.
Across the softly drifting current, I heard a growing commotion. The silence was interrupted by the rustle of leaves, the sharp snapping of branches, and the unmistakable rush of startled birds taking flight.
A man’s voice called out, raw and desperate. Though I could not discern the words, it was a clear cry for help.
As if on cue, the darkness receded, and the moon’s brilliance intensified, illuminating the opposite bank like spotlights unveiling a dramatic performance.
A solitary figure burst onto the stage. He moved with impossible speed, soaring through the air, long hair streaming behind him.
I could only see vague outlines, like silhouettes from a vintage shadow play.
The man glanced back over his shoulder in panic, his movements becoming erratic and disjointed. A sharp beam of light came out of nowhere, striking his back and knocking him off balance in midair. He faltered, and in that instant, I saw what he was fleeing.
Out of the shadows, a pair of ominous figures emerged. They wore owl-like masks, and their dark cloaks billowed behind them like wings.
As the pursuers closed in on their prey, a deafening noise erupted, and a blinding flash engulfed the man. In an instant, he was gone.
A loud noise jolted me awake. My heart pounded as a cold rush of panic flooded my body. There was no explosion, only the sharp crashes of shattering bottles as the binmen emptied the recycling from the riverside restaurants. They shouted, banged bin lids, and finally departed, their vehicle emitting shrill warning signals that pierced through the haze.
Ah, it must be Wednesday.
I was a bit queasy, as if the dream had left me with a lingering sense of motion sickness. There was also a strange pressure behind my eyes, but that was likely just last night’s wine.
I fumbled for my phone and noticed the time. It was not yet eight o’clock. Despite having evening plans, the day stretched ahead with little to occupy me.
The long winter had dulled my energy and left me unmotivated. It had been months since anything sparked my interest. I had not signed up for any festivals or sought out any sort of work.
Travelling had crossed my mind, but that too held little appeal. I had already been everywhere I wanted to go.
I let the weight of the covers pull me under again.
When I stepped outside around eleven, the atmosphere had a surreal, dreamlike quality. The air felt charged, as if a faint tingling brushed across my skin. Not quite static, but the sensation was similar.
This was not a hangover. I knew that feeling too well. This was something different. Perhaps I was coming down with something.
It was a beautiful day, perhaps the first perfect one of the year. The sky was a vivid blue, and sunlight danced off the ripples in the canal. A pair of swans attempted to corral their cygnets, who floundered against the current.
A gentle breeze wandered through the gaps between the buildings, softly rustling the bunting on the riverside café and creating a delightful fluttering sound. The newly emerged daffodils dotted the banks with bright spots of yellow, and the flowering trees were beginning to reveal their beauty.
Along the riverfront, bars and restaurants hurried to arrange their outdoor seating before the lunchtime rush.
Spring had finally arrived.
Outside Bella Luna, Matteo was wiping down tables and adjusting umbrellas with the kind of effortless efficiency that suggested he had done it a thousand times before. Anna, his wife, expertly balanced their baby on her hip while confidently issuing instructions. Matteo gave her a theatrical eye roll and then smiled at me, the kind of smile that said, yes, she is the boss.
Bella Luna was only a few steps from my door, and I found myself there more often than I cared to admit, drawn by the worn, well-earned charm. The food was excellent and affordable. The décor was traditionally Italian with framed opera posters, solid dark wood tables, and retro-style red twilight candles that flickered stubbornly but gave off little light.
In a neighbourhood full of chain restaurants and cafés trying hard to chase the next trend, it was one of the few places that felt authentic.
Matteo always greeted me warmly, and during quieter evenings we would often sit together and share a bottle of wine.
He poured himself into the restaurant. If the doors were open, he was there. When I first visited, Anna was a newly hired waitress from Poland. Now, she was Matteo’s wife, and their baby was almost four months old.
The current of life seemed to carry everyone forward while I remained adrift.
Emerging onto the square, I was not pleased to find a crowd gathered at my favourite coffee stall. Patience was not one of my strengths; however, part of me was glad to see them so busy. The market traders had weathered a rough winter, especially those who stayed open year-round.
The stall, run by two rather unfriendly brothers from Milan, served excellent coffee with little charm. Still, it was always popular. Gino, the elder brother, acknowledged me in the queue with a sharp nod. My flat white was already waiting when I reached the front. At least, being a regular counted for something.
From the heart of the square, lanes and roads branched out in many directions, like the spokes of a misshapen wheel. Small alleys and hidden shortcuts could take you to unique cafés, secluded churchyards, or down to the riverside.
An ancient church watched over the square, its towering spire acting as a beacon for the market. The surrounding buildings reflected a diverse blend of eras, where modern shops nestled within ancient structures.
This market had endured in one form or another for more than a thousand years. Even with the intrusion of a modern retail complex and a few unsightly buildings from the nineteen-seventies, it retained a kind of historical charm that spoke to me. Something larger than myself. Timeless. Solid.
Living close to the river also brought me comfort, though I never quite understood why.
I had lived here for over two years. It was the first time I had put down roots.
It was also a university town, ensuring there was never a shortage of lovely young men around. I was not necessarily looking for a boyfriend, but that did not mean I did not enjoy window shopping or occasionally trying something on. Perhaps I was getting a tad old to be chasing university boys, but younger men were less ... complicated.
While I paid for my coffee, I exchanged flirty glances with a dark-eyed cutie, which earned me a smile in return.
Friends rarely came to visit. To most of them, London ceased to exist once you crossed the river. Since there was no tube station out this way, they acted as though I had moved to the countryside. My social circle had begun to dwindle.
But perhaps distance was not the only reason. The truth was simpler: I had stopped reaching out, and eventually, they had stopped reaching back. Nurturing friendships required a degree of effort I often could not muster.
I still had Oliver, perhaps because he handled most of the heavy lifting when it came to keeping our friendship alive. We were planning to meet up in Soho this evening, and I welcomed the distraction.
I perched on the edge of a stone bench, watching people drift between the stalls. I savoured my coffee, thankful I had not decided to skip the queue.
The clamour of vendors touting their fruit and vegetables filled the air. Shopkeepers were busy sweeping the pavements and arranging displays. The perfumed air drifting over from the flower stall carried the scent of freesias, a delicate caress that soothed my senses. I felt much better, though the haze had not quite lifted.
I sat quietly, watching the scene play out before me. Giggling students in matching uniforms passed, office workers clutched takeaway cups as they enjoyed a brief escape in the sun.
“Liam, you get back here right now!” The sound of my name snapped me to attention. The voice came from a young mother as she chased after her errant toddler, awkwardly dragging the pram behind her. Just another morning in the market.
I drained the last of my coffee and stood to leave when a sudden shift in the sky caught my attention.
A large gathering of crows descended over the square like a shadow. They settled on statues and the eaves of buildings, draping them in shifting swathes of black. The sheer number was eerily unsettling; there were easily hundreds of them. Living in London, I was accustomed to vast flocks of pigeons, but never crows.
A faint shiver travelled through me, coaxing the hair on my arms to rise.
None of them moved.
None made a sound.
Their black eyes were fixed on a lone figure who had just entered the square, his dark, glossy hair reflecting the sunlight with a bluish iridescence, like the feathers of the crows gathered above.
