“Imprint”

Someone was looking at her. Not looking. Watching.

Sydney put down the book she was flipping through and raised her head. All she could see were other patrons in the small bookstore. The strong smell of coffee drifted from the back café towards the front of the store. Outside, the rain continued to pour from the gray sky.

She glanced out the window and narrowed her eyes. She took a step closer to the glass, then another. She brushed past a group of teenagers reading over the latest fashion magazines, the elderly man picking out a birthday card, the young mother softly reading to her baby boy.

When she was finally in front of the window, she stopped. Cars cautiously sped on the other side, splashing water onto the sidewalks. Pedestrians raced to their destinations, under umbrellas and suitcases and coats. Her fingers curled under her damp sweater—it wasn’t that look ago that she was one of them.

She moved her gaze down the window. Something lingered there. Here.

There it was.

A hand imprint.

Sydney could see each groove—lifelines, loveliness—five fingers, five long almost-delicate fingers. They could play her a song right now if she asked.

She put her warm hand over the cool glass, the cool hand. It was like a perfect fit.

A reflection passed outside. Another hand joined hers.

The owner. The perfect to her fit.

Her eyes stared at the man. Their hands still joined together.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead, he lowered his hand. The imprint dripped down the window pane, quickly turning into mist. He turned to go.

Sydney panicked. She ran out the bookstore before he could vanish.

But it was too late. She was standing alone, drenched in the rainfall.

And Sark was gone.