Chapter 1
The bell above the shop door rang for what felt like the hundredth time that day, and Selira pasted on the tired half-smile she kept for customers. The shelves smelled faintly of cedar and paper, stacked with notebooks, candles, herbal teas, and handmade soaps that tourists liked to touch, smell, and then put back in the wrong place.
She stood behind the counter wrapping a box of lavender tea, nodding as a woman told her how she missed Provence. Behind her, a young couple argued softly over which candle to buy. By the window, a student flipped through a journal, muttering numbers under his breath as if the right page would reveal the formula he’d forgotten.
It was ordinary work, and it paid the bills. But by late afternoon, her shoulders ached from lifting boxes, her patience had frayed thin, and she was counting hours until closing.
Today was her last shift. Then—finally—a week off. Morocco.
Not just a holiday. She told people she was “scouting,” which was true. She wanted to test routes in the Atlas mountains, maybe add them to the wellness journeys she was building. But more than that, she needed to breathe air that didn’t belong to London.
At six, she pulled the shutters down, locked the till, and exhaled. The silence that followed was a kind of relief. She gathered her bag, slipped into her coat, and stepped into the cool September evening.
That evening, she had a date.
A friend of a friend had convinced her—“He’s nice, give him a chance,” Clara had said. She didn’t date much. She couldn’t stand wasted energy. But she’d agreed, telling herself it would be harmless.
It wasn’t.
He hadn’t even opened the door when he picked her up. A small detail, but one she noticed. No flowers, no thoughtfulness—just a casual wave as she slid into the passenger seat. By the time they sat down at the restaurant, Selira already knew.
“So,” he said, leaning back in the booth as if they were at an interview. “What do you bring to the table?”
Selira blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “Which table? This one? I brought myself.”
He chuckled, as though amused by a child. “No, I mean, what do you offer in a relationship? What makes you valuable?”
Her smile sharpened. “Well, I don’t interview for roles. I’m not a job posting. Relationships aren’t companies hiring employees.” She sipped her water, unbothered. “What do you bring?”
He cleared his throat. “Stability. Ambition. I know where I’m going.”
“Lovely,” she said dryly. “So does Google Maps.”
He blinked, thrown off, then recovered with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you believe in star signs?”
“Yes,” Selira said evenly.
He smirked, exactly as she expected. “Oh, so you think Mercury being in retrograde is why people are late for work?”
“No,” she said, folding her napkin across her lap. “I think people being late for work is why Mercury feels the need to retrograde. Someone’s got to balance things out.”
For a second, he had no comeback. She watched him flounder, sipping her water like wine.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was about to say something profound. “Don’t you think all this spiritual stuff is just… escapism?”
Selira tilted her head. “Don’t you think dismissing what you don’t understand is escapism? Safer to call it nonsense than to admit there’s more than you can measure.”
The waitress arrived to take their order. He pointed at a steak without looking at the menu. Selira ordered grilled vegetables and couscous.
“So you’re into plants,” he said when the waitress left, the word plants hanging like a child’s toy he didn’t know how to use.
“Yes,” she said.
“Cute hobby.”
Selira leaned her elbows on the table. “It’s not a hobby. Plants feed you, heal you, scent your life, build your houses, and clean your air. Without them, you wouldn’t last a week. Tell me again about your ambition?”
He coughed into his water. “I just mean… you know… it’s not exactly impressive.”
“Impressive is subjective,” she said calmly. “Some people are impressed by ambition. Some are impressed by kindness. Some are impressed by a man who opens a door.”
His ears went slightly pink.
By dessert, Selira was finished—finished with the meal, the performance, the idea that she had to sit through this to prove she was trying.
When the bill came, he glanced at it, shrugged, and tossed his card onto the tray. He didn’t look at her, didn’t ask how she was getting home. He just paid, slid out of the booth, and said, “Goodnight.”
No offer to walk her out. No glance back.
Selira watched him leave, the door swinging shut behind him, and felt nothing but relief. She was glad to be rid of him.
Instead of heading straight home, she crossed the street into a bar she liked, the kind of place with low lighting and music that hummed instead of shouted. She ordered an espresso martini—her favorite—and slid onto a high stool.
She was dressed in a black silk dress, cut halfway backless, paired with strappy sandal heels. Her hair was neat, her earrings caught the light. She looked as she always did when she cared to: composed, elegant, a woman who knew herself.
She stirred the drink slowly, savoring the foam and bitterness, the quiet luxury of sitting alone. Alone, but not lonely. Never lonely.
The date had drained her, but this moment—her glass, her dress, her solitude—restored her.
And somewhere under it all, she felt it again: the faintest brush of presence, like someone unseen had chosen her already, waiting for the night she’d finally see him.
The streets were damp from an earlier shower, lamplight spreading in slick ribbons over the asphalt. She turned down her usual shortcut, phone in hand, mind already halfway home.
She didn’t see the car until it was nearly on her.
A black cab shot past, tires slicing water from the road. Its horn blared, echoing sharp against the buildings. Selira stepped forward at the wrong second, heel slipping on the wet curb.
And then—hands.
Strong hands gripped her shoulders from behind, wrenching her backward so hard she hit the ground. Her breath tore out of her throat as the cab screamed by, missing her by inches.
“Thank you very much,” she gasped, spinning—
Nobody.
The pavement behind her was empty. A cyclist rattled by half a block away. A man with an umbrella hurried across the opposite corner. But right here, in the space behind her, there was no one.
Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. She pressed her palm flat against the brick, chest heaving.
The sensation lingered: firm fingers around her arms, the steadiness in them. Not random. Deliberate. And familiar. She had felt that touch before—but only in dreams.
Her wrist tingled, the same place where the dream-light always marked her.
She swallowed, forcing herself to keep walking. A laugh bubbled up, shaky and thin. “London,” she muttered. “You’re losing it.”
But the echo of those hands followed her all the way home.
Her flat above the row of shops was small but enough. Sloped ceilings, white walls, plants spilling from shelves as if determined to turn the space into a forest. She kicked off her wet boots, lit a candle on the table, and pulled the cork from the bottle of Georgian red she’d been saving.
The wine smelled of berries and smoke. She poured a glass and curled into the chair by the window, watching the city drip itself into night. London always looked softer after rain, the lights doubled in puddles, the edges blurred.
She let her head fall back against the cushion. It had been a long, hard week: customers impatient, deliveries late, her manager fussing over margins. She’d smiled, nodded, endured.
She reached for her notebook, flipping to a fresh page. Her pen moved quickly:
— Ask about saffron: rituals, not just recipes. — Neroli water: distillation, carried at weddings. — Cedarwood: burned in mountain homes, protection. — Atlas herbs: what grows wild this season.
Her lips pressed together. She closed the book.
The moon wasn’t full tonight. It wouldn’t be for three more days. And she knew the dreams wouldn’t come until then. That was the pattern.
She drained her glass, carried the bottle and notebook into the bedroom, and set her suitcase on the bed.
Practical things only: hiking boots, thick socks, a rain jacket, breathable layers. A scarf that doubled as a wrap. Her notebook, pencils, and her small wooden herb press. A headlamp, a sturdy water bottle, the guidebook she’d covered with sticky notes.
Folding each item calmed her. Made the trip feel real. She zipped the case, left it by the door, and sat on the bed with her wine glass balanced on her knee.
The city moved outside as usual: muffled music from the pub, the screech of a bus braking, laughter spilling down the street. All ordinary. All temporary.
She pressed her hand to her wrist, where she could still feel those unseen fingers. Whoever—or whatever—they belonged to, it wasn’t ordinary.
The moon hid behind cloud, but she felt it waiting. Three nights until full. Three nights until the dream returned.
She lay back against the pillows, wine beside her, suitcase by the door.
Something is coming.
The next morning was quiet, washed pale with weak sunlight. Her flight wasn’t until evening, so she had hours to fill. She made coffee, buttered toast, and sat at the kitchen counter staring at her suitcase to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. Boots? Packed. Guidebook? Packed. Notebook? Packed.
With the apartment too still, she took her laptop to a café nearby.
The café smelled of ground beans and warm croissants. She ordered an oat flat white, set up her laptop, and pulled open the half-built travel website she’d been designing for weeks. The home page glowed back at her: Travel, Nature, and Renewal. She typed for a while, working on a blog post about Morocco:
The Atlas is a place of cedar and silence, where saffron blossoms blaze purple against the dust, where water trickles cold and sweet from the mountainsides. A landscape that teaches you to breathe differently.
She was so focused she almost didn’t notice Clara sliding into the chair opposite her.
“Well,” Clara said, grinning, “how was the date?”
Selira groaned. “Disaster. You owe me wine.”
Clara laughed. “That bad?”
“He asked me what I bring to the table.”
“No,” Clara gasped, hand to her chest.
“Yes. Exactly like that.”
They both laughed, shaking their heads. “At least you tried,” Clara said.
“Never again,” Selira said, though she was still smiling.
Clara reached over, squeezing her hand. “You’re not meant to waste your energy like that. You’re saving it for something else.”
Something else. The words lingered. Selira nodded, even though she wasn’t sure what that something was.
By evening, she was at the airport, shuffling through the lines, her backpack heavy on her shoulders. The hours blurred: check-in, security, a plastic sandwich eaten in the departure lounge. She boarded, stowed her bag, and buckled herself into the narrow seat.
On the plane, the city fell away in grids and glitter. Night pressed its forehead to the glass. Selira watched her own reflection float over the wing—her face layered on cloud and dark.
She reached down for her bag, feeling for the laptop, then the small tin of lip balm. Something cool slid against her fingers. A bracelet.
She brought it up to the faint cabin light: a unique gold bracelet, fine and scuffed from years of wear. The old man in Georgia had fastened it around her wrist on her last day, saying, It belonged to my wife. She would have liked you—someone who listens. She’d argued, he’d insisted. A thing that has loved someone can learn to love again, he’d said, with that small, stubborn smile.
Selira turned the bracelet in her hands. It had weight, the kind made of memory rather than metal.
Outside, the wing cut a smooth path through nothing. Inside, the cabin murmured with seatbelts and soft voices. She set the laptop on her tray, unscrewed the balm, and then, without quite meaning to, closed her eyes.
I close my eyes and think of the week I had in Georgia, she told herself, as if narrating a film to her own bones. The week that made the dreams begin. The week I opened something inside me under the full moon.
The bracelet warmed under her palm.
She let the plane carry her backward before it carried her forward.
