On the fourth morning, the dread was already awake before he was.
The crows cried at the same moment, and Veil opened his eyes with the certainty that the day was waiting for him.
The same room. The same crack. The same cold. The same bitterness.
He dressed and stepped outside.
The village began exactly as before.
Old Maren greeted him.
He ignored her.
She greeted him again.
The second time was worse than the first. Not because it was strange, but because it was empty. The words had no life in them, no response to being dismissed. They returned polished and perfect, untouched by his refusal.
At the market, Veil turned away before the fishmonger's cry could reach him.
He headed toward the old well at the northern edge of the village, forcing his steps along a path he did not usually take. He had no real plan. Only the stubborn need to move where the day did not expect him to.
Behind him, voices blurred together.
Then the call came anyway.
"Fresh fish! A fine catch today!"
Too early.
Too close.
He walked faster.
The lane bent toward the well, passing a row of shuttered houses. Veil fixed his eyes on the stone rim ahead and did not look back.
A boy ran past him barefoot, laughing.
Veil stopped.
He recognized him.
Yesterday, the boy had been near the square.
Now he came from the wrong direction entirely.
A woman called after him from one of the houses.
Same words as before.
Same tone.
Different place.
Veil's mouth went dry.
The day was not merely repeating.
It was adjusting.
A red petal lay on the stones near his boot.
He had not seen it there before.
He stared.
Another petal drifted down and caught on the edge of the well.
Then another.
The air went still.
Not calm.
Still.
No wind. No voices. No footsteps. The village seemed to pause around him as if listening.
Then sound returned all at once—a bucket knocking stone, a bark in the distance, the murmur of voices.
And behind him—
"Would you like to try the bitter root drink?"
Veil spun around.
The old man stood three paces away.
Cup in hand.
No stall. No knife. No fish.
Only the cup.
A surge of anger rose through the fear.
"Stop that," Veil snapped.
The old man did not blink.
"Would you like to try the bitter root drink?"
Veil struck the cup from his hand.
It hit the stones and shattered.
The sound rang through the lane.
For the first time, something changed on the old man's face.
Not surprise. Not anger.
Absence.
As though expression itself had been removed.
Veil blinked.
The cup was whole again.
Back in the old man's hand.
Extended toward him as if nothing had happened.
A hard chill swept through Veil.
Near the mouth of the lane, half veiled in shadow, the silent man stood watching.
He had not been there a heartbeat earlier.
Or perhaps he had.
Veil no longer trusted what he saw quickly.
The stranger said nothing. He only watched.
Veil turned away before fear became panic and did not stop until he was home.
That night, sleep came slowly.
When it finally did, he dreamed of shattered cups blooming with flowers.