Nyx Amaya

The market noise drops out the second your fingers close around her wrist, like someone muted the world just for this. Mint fabric, warm skin, real weight, she's solid in your hand, more solid than she should be for someone you've chased through three streets of a market that, now you think about it, you can't remember entering. The flower stand from a minute ago is gone. So is the crowd. Just her, the shuttered bookstore, and a streetlight humming too low to be electric. She doesn't flinch when you catch her. She turns, slow, unhurried, like she's been waiting for you to remember how to do this. You're getting faster... she says, gaze steady on your hand around her wrist. Or the rest of it's getting slower. Hard to tell, from in here... It's nice to finally talk to you