The river looked the same, but it felt different now. Sol hadn't been here in months—couldn't bring himself to stand at the railing without the weight of memory pressing into his chest. But tonight, something unexplainable had drawn him back.

The city murmured softly behind him, distant lights reflected in the rippling water. Spring had given way to summer, and the air was thick with warmth, but it didn't reach him.

He took a deep breath, his fingers brushing over the chalk he'd carried in his pocket for weeks. It had become a strange comfort, though he didn't understand why. There were no answers here, no clarity to the questions that had haunted him since the night he realized Wren was never truly there.

Or was she?

Sol closed his eyes, the memory of her laugh threading through his mind like a melody he couldn't place. Her presence had felt so real, her words so tangible, that even now, he couldn't separate what was imagined from what wasn't.

The sound of footsteps startled him.

He tensed, his heart quickening as he turned toward the sound. A figure was approaching, the faint outline backlit by the glow of distant streetlights.

It wasn't Wren.

But something about the figure held an uncanny familiarity.

The person stopped a few feet away, lingering in the shadows. A soft, almost hesitant voice broke the silence.

"You've been here before."

Sol frowned. The voice was calm, steady, and vaguely recognizable, though he couldn't place it. "Who are you?" he asked.

The figure stepped closer, and Sol caught sight of a face—young, unassuming, with sharp eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. The stranger tilted their head, studying him.

"That's the wrong question," they said quietly. "The real question is: Why are you still looking for her?"

Sol's breath caught, his grip tightening around the chalk in his pocket. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The stranger gave a faint smile, one that didn't reach their eyes. "Maybe you don't. Or maybe you're just afraid of the answer."

They took another step forward, their expression unreadable. "She isn't gone, you know. Not completely."

His heart was pounding now, his thoughts racing. "What do you mean?"

The stranger didn't respond immediately. Instead, they reached into their jacket and pulled out a small, weathered notebook. They held it out to him, their gaze steady.

"She wanted you to have this."

Sol stared at the notebook, his hand hesitating before he took it. The cover was soft with age, the corners frayed. His name was written on the front in Wren's unmistakable handwriting.

Before he could say another word, the stranger turned and walked away, their footsteps fading into the distance. Sol called out after them, but they didn't stop.

He looked down at the notebook in his hands, his pulse pounding. Opening it slowly, he found the first page blank. But on the second page, in Wren's familiar looping script, were words that made his breath catch:

"The truth isn't what you think it is. Keep looking."

The night closed in around him as Sol stood there, the notebook trembling in his hands, the river whispering below.

For the first time in months, he felt something stir inside him—an ache, a pull, a need to find the answers he didn't even know he was seeking.

Wren might have been a ghost, a dream, or a figment of his mind.

But whatever she was, she wasn't done with him yet.