“…byw…”

And in the corner booth, a long grey coat, draped over nothing, still faintly warm.

“…fyltrshkn…”

“What’s on the other side?” Llyr whispered.

Inside, the air was thick with peat smoke and the low murmur of men who had outlived their secrets. Llyr ordered a pint of something dark and sat near the hearth, hoping the warmth would peel the damp from his bones.

“Read it aloud,” the figure said. Its voice was the sound of a lock turning in a flooded house. “You know you want to.”

Llyr’s fingers tightened on the paper. “What does it mean?”

The first word came out like a stone dropped into deep water.

“danlwd fyltrshkn byw byw bray wyndwz”

But Llyr was already standing. Not from courage—from curiosity, that older and more dangerous twin. The napkin was damp in his palm. The words seemed to rearrange themselves as he looked: danlwd – downlood? downward? fyltrshkn – filter shaking? filter shaken? A filter shaken twice, then a bray at windows.

“Him who?”