Whispers of the Turning Seasons (part 2)

The letter haunted Evelyn long after she closed the box. She placed everything back exactly as she found it, locked the lid, and set the box at the foot of the bed. But the words kept echoing in her mind:

“Follow the signs. They will appear on the days the world is most distracted.”

And December — especially in New York — was a month built on distraction. Winter markets, toy drives, Christmas parades, charity events, tree-lighting ceremonies… the city practically lived inside a snow globe of festivities.

Maybe that was the point.

Evelyn rubbed her temples, forcing herself to focus. She needed air. Cold, fresh, unforgiving air.

She pulled on her coat and stepped outside.

The front steps were dusted with snow, fresh enough that her boots sank softly with every step. She breathed in the sharp winter air. It helped. Slightly.

The street was busier than usual — a rehearsal for the city’s annual Winter Parade was happening two blocks down. She could hear the distant bells, the brass band warming up, and children laughing as they chased each other through clumps of snow.

Everything felt normal.
Reassuringly normal.

Which only made the letter feel even more surreal.

She walked toward the corner café where she and her mother used to sit every Christmas Eve — the kind of place with fogged-up windows and cinnamon lingering in the air. The kind of place that made strangers feel like regulars.

But as she approached the crosswalk, something caught her attention.

Footprints.
A trail of them in the snow beside her house. Leading from the alley… straight to her doorstep.

That alone wasn’t strange in a city where millions walked everywhere.
But these prints were different.

They were bare footprints.
No shoes. No boots.
Just the outline of toes and the ball of a foot, pressed deep into the snow.

Evelyn froze.

No one walked barefoot in a New York winter. Not unless they were hurt, delirious, or deliberately trying to send a message.

She crouched down.

The prints were fresh. The snow had stopped hours ago, and these hadn’t filled in yet. That meant whoever made them had been here recently. Very recently.

Her stomach tightened.

She followed the trail a few steps until it stopped abruptly — as if the person disappeared into thin air. No turn. No drag marks. No overlapping prints. Just a clean dead end in the middle of the alley.

A cold shiver crawled up her spine.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” she whispered. “People do weird things in this city. That’s all.”

But it didn’t feel like “all.”

She turned away from the prints, forcing herself toward the café. The warm glow of its windows was a welcome sight. She stepped inside, letting the heat wash over her. The air smelled of roasted coffee and nutmeg — exactly as she remembered.

She ordered a simple black coffee and found a seat by the window. Her hands wrapped around the warm ceramic cup, though she barely tasted the drink.

Her mind replayed the morning in fragments:
The open wardrobe.
The unlocked box.
The letter.
The barefoot prints.

Coincidence. That’s what a rational journalist would call it. She was trained to see facts, not fantasies. Evidence, not omens.

But the letter dated eighteen years before she existed… what rational explanation covered that?

As she stared out the window, watching snowflakes drift past the glass, she noticed a figure across the street. A man — tall, wearing a long dark coat — standing perfectly still.

Facing her.

He didn’t move. Didn’t look away.
Just watched.

She blinked.

A delivery truck passed in front of the café, blocking her view for a moment. When the truck rolled away…

The man was gone.

Not walking.
Not turning a corner.
Just gone.

Her heartbeat hammered.
First the letter.
Then the footprints.
Now this.

She whispered the one question she didn’t want to ask:

“Is this the first sign?”
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> The footprints vanished.
The watcher disappeared.
And the signs are no longer subtle.
Part Three begins when the second sign reveals itself.
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