Moon Touched

The man in the corner hadn't touched his ale in three hours.

Selene noticed him the moment he walked in. Impossible not to. He moved in a way that made other men make space without realizing: shoulders too broad, presence too heavy, eyes the color of winter sky just before snow. The kind of eyes that had seen things. The kind of hands that had done things.

Now he sat in shadow, watching.

Not her specifically. The room. The doors. The windows. Every few minutes, his gaze swept the tavern like he expected something to burst through and needed to be ready.

Selene wiped down the bar and tried to ignore the way her skin prickled when her back was to him.

"You're staring again."

Marta's voice made her jump. The older woman raised an eyebrow, gray-streaked hair escaping her bun as she hauled a tray of glasses. At fifty-two, Marta had run the Blackthorn Tavern for thirty years. She'd seen everything. Feared nothing. Except, apparently, Selene's poor life choices.

"I'm not staring. I'm observing."

"Observing the same stranger who's been here every night this week?" Marta snorted. "Men like that have something to hide."

Selene had no room to judge people with things to hide.

She'd arrived in Blackthorn six months ago with nothing but a worn bag and a hospital discharge paper that said "amnesia: cause unknown." No family. No friends. No memories of anything before waking up in a city bed with bandages on arms she didn't recognize and a social worker who patted her hand and said "sometimes forgetting is a blessing."

The villagers had been kind. They'd given her a job, a tiny room above the bakery, and most importantly, they hadn't asked questions.

Because everyone in Blackthorn had something to hide.

That's what Marta said her first week. "This village isn't a place you come to. It's a place you run to. The forest keeps our secrets. The wolves make sure no one comes looking."

Selene had nodded like she understood. She didn't. She couldn't remember what she was running from. But sometimes, late at night, she dreamed of running through trees on four legs, and woke up with dirt under her nails.

She never told anyone that.

Across the room, old Yuri spilled his drink. Selene was there before he could bend, kneeling to gather the pieces, ignoring the sharp edge that bit into her still-raw palm from earlier. "Don't worry about it," she said when he apologized. "I've dropped worse."

Marta watched from the bar, shaking her head. "Too soft for this world, that one."

A crash snapped Selene's attention back. At the corner table, the stranger had risen so fast his chair toppled. His body went rigid, head tilted like he was listening to something no one else could hear, some distant sound only he perceived.

The tavern went quiet. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

Then his eyes found hers.

And for one heartbeat, one frozen, impossible heartbeat, they weren't gray anymore.

They were gold.

Not like sunlight. Like embers. Like something ancient burning beneath the surface, struggling to break free.

Selene's hand slipped. The glass she was holding shattered in the sink. Blood welled from her palm, bright red against pale skin, but she didn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the weight of that gaze pinning her in place.

I know you.

The thought came from nowhere. She didn't know him.She had never seen him before this week. But something in her chest: something deeper than memory recognized him.

Then he was gone.

The door swung gently. Snow blew in. The other patrons muttered and returned to their drinks, already forgetting.

Marta grabbed her arm. "You're bleeding, child."

Selene looked down. Shards of glass stuck in her palm. Blood dripped onto the bar. She hadn't even flinched.

"I'll get the kit," Marta said, already moving. "Don't move. Don't touch anything. Stubborn girl, I told you those glasses were too thin…"

But Selene couldn't move. Her feet were rooted. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped animal.

Gold eyes.

She'd seen them before. She was sure of it. In dreams she couldn't quite remember. In a fog of memory that wouldn't clear no matter how hard she clawed at it.

The window beside her frosted over.

Not gradually, but instantly. Ice spread across the glass like living things, ferns and fractals and patterns that shouldn't form that fast. Selene watched, transfixed, as condensation wrote a single word in the center: RUN.

Her blood dripped onto the floor.

Outside, through the frost, she caught a glimpse of movement: something large, something dark, vanishing into the tree line.

And beneath the word on the glass, barely visible, five faint lines etched into the frost.

Like claw marks.

Like something had been trying to get in.

Or someone had been trying to warn her.

Marta returned with bandages. "What happened to the window?"

Selene turned. The frost was already gone. No word. No marks. Just clean glass and falling snow.

"Nothing," she whispered. "I don't know."

But her palm still bled. And her skin still tingled where his eyes had touched her. And somewhere in the forest, something howled: long and low and mournful, and Selene felt it in her bones like an answer to a question she hadn't known to ask.

Marta bandaged her hand, muttering. The tavern filled with laughter again. Life continued.

But Selene kept looking at the window.

And the word kept echoing in her mind.

Run.

From what?

Or... to whom?