The square felt different the next morning. Quieter, as if sound itself had thinned. People walked faster, their eyes lowered, their mouths shut.
I told myself not to linger, but I did.
That's when I saw him. The blacksmith's boy.
He sat on the steps outside his father's workshop, his arm wrapped thick in bandages. His mother hovered close, shoulders tense, shooing away anyone who came near.
I slowed, unable to look away. His face was pale, his mouth tight, as though he was holding words back with his teeth.
Then his hand moved.
Not a twitch---something beneath the bandages shifted, pushing against the cloth like a ripple under water. The sight made my stomach lurch.
The boy flinched hard, pressing his other hand over the wrappings as if he could keep whatever was underneath from breaking free. His mother touched his shoulder, whispering too low for me to hear.
I couldn't stop staring. The cloth seemed to tighten, then ease, as if it were breathing.
He looked up suddenly. His eyes locked onto mine.
For a moment, it was as though he saw straight through me. His face crumpled, raw terror filling his eyes---but it wasn't me he was looking at.
It was behind me.
I spun.
The square was empty. Just fog curling between the houses.
When I turned back, his mother was pulling him inside, her eyes flicking once to me, sharp and warning, before the door slammed shut.
I stood alone in the square, my pulse hammering. Whatever was inside that boy's bandages hadn't finished with him.
And somehow, I felt it hadn't finished with me either.