[ darling stumbles out onto the sidewalk, dust covering the shoulders of his cardigan. it's also in his hair and on the lenses of his glasses — the flecks dirty-brown and sticky due to sweat. he dodges the stranger by an inch or so, then pauses to catches his breath. this is far too strange, the way things seem to appear and disappear. he hears another tap on the window and this time he ignores it, knowing that it must be a game meant to play. as his chest rises and falls, the sound of his heartbeat dims in his ears. it's only then that darling registers what the man has said, and he shakes his head to the negative. not a ghost per se, but something akin to it. the way the walls stretched, the way they closed in. the portrait, the grime, the smell of mildew and caked dust. ]

I'm fine.

[ a lie, but one that darling himself is trying to believe. he side-glances the man, then straightens his back, spine stiff. he begins to shake the dust off, hand brushing at his shoulders to remove the filth. he doesn't want to talk about it, not really, but then — another tap. ]

I wouldn't go in there — nothing of interest. Just a dusty book store.

[ darling desperately chants that: just a dusty book store in the back of his mind. his gaze sets upon the man, and he lowers his chin, looking over dirty lenses. darling wants to warn him, wants to tell him not to follow the lights — but would it be futile? ever since arriving here, unusual occurrences crop up more than what he's used to. it always feels sinister, as if someone is playing a trick on him personally. thoughtful, he takes off his glasses, cleaning them on the edge of his cardigan. he licks his lips, then decides on: ]

Just — take my word on it. Don't go in there.