New Year, New Journal (Izmailovsky Market)

[Seren]

The sharp flare vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Seren watched it recede – not extinguished, not satisfied, just withdrawing. The golden motes that had burned with such focused intent scattered back into the general haze of the market, dissolving into the softer wants of warmth, money, and distraction. Whoever had been searching wasn’t gone, only choosing not to be seen. That was almost worse. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. It could have been nothing, but it wasn’t the only time she’d felt that pressure at the edge of her awareness. The sense of being watched with purpose.

She forced her breathing slow. The market went on. Snow fell. The vendor waited patiently.

A woman beside her spoke.

Seren had been aware, but she hadn’t been paying close attention. The shift when she did was immediate: something warmer, gentler, its light soft as fireflies. Where the earlier presence had burned bright and narrow, this desire was human and diffuse. The golden motes around the woman didn’t surge or climb; they hovered, steady and soft, clustered close to her chest in a way that spoke of beginnings rather than hunger.

“Happy New Year,” Seren replied, voice low and warm, Welsh vowels rounding out the words. Her eyes flicked briefly to the coffee, steam curling into the cold, then up to the woman’s face. The glimmer around her brightened subtly – the kind of attraction that didn’t reach or grab, just noticed. Nothing that made Seren wary, but she softened herself automatically, keeping herself steady in a way that dulled her projection in as much as she could. She’d learned the hard way that attention, once acknowledged too brightly, tended to organise itself around her. The smile she returned was small but genuine, careful not to sharpen the moment into anything more than it was.
 
It wasn't the only thing in the drifting patterns of the woman's wants. Seren glanced down at the deep-blue journal in her grasp, thumb resting against the brass clasp. For a moment, she considered keeping it – the weight, the promise of clean pages, the comfort of something solid in her hands. The vendor watched on quietly, his own modest hope hovering like a candle flame. Then she turned the journal so the woman could see it clearly, an offering without pressure.

“If you were looking at this one,” she said lightly, “I don’t mind letting it go. I haven’t paid yet.”

It wasn’t generosity born of politeness. It was instinct – a choice to step sideways rather than forward, to see what would happen if she didn’t take up all the space she so often seemed to occupy. Her gaze lingered, not invasive, just attentive; seeing without pushing. Inside, she stayed alert, watching the gold, waiting to see whether it flared or reshaped into something sharper. For now, the attraction remained what it was – awareness, not claim – and that allowed her shoulders to relax just a fraction.

“They have a way of choosing their people,” she added, almost as an aside, lips curving faintly. “Journals, I mean.”