The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 390

There weren't many shops still lit up on the night market street in the early hours of the morning, but hot food was the undisputed king of late-night cravings, and over a dozen diners were still open.

Some were located in two-story buildings along the street, their neon signs jutting out from balconies and swaying in the rain.

Others were food stands set up under awnings, with plastic tables and chairs lining the sidewalk, the heat from the grills making the puddles on the tarps visibly steam.

A few hole-in-the-wall joints were hidden deep in the alleys, marked only by a dim yellow bulb at the entrance, so inconspicuous you wouldn't even know they were open.

Garrison Foster parked his car by the curb and began searching them, one by one.

He pushed open the door to an old-school diner on the main strip, but the waiter said he hadn't seen a girl carrying a cello.

He ducked under the awning of a BBQ joint in an alley, where the owner, scrubbing a grill by the door, just glanced up and shook his head.

He climbed up to the third floor of an old walk-up building to find a private eatery, only for a middle-aged woman in her pajamas to answer the door, telling him her last customer had left ten minutes ago.

His shoes splashed through puddles, the hems of his pants soaked up to his knees, but the rain kept pouring with no signs of stopping...

He stood dead center in the middle of the street, slowly spinning around to scan the area, the glowing signs blurring into a hazy smear of red light through the downpour. He felt his sanity peeling away layer by layer, like wet paper disintegrating in the rain.

And then, he saw a figure.

It was a slim, petite silhouette leaning against a pillar beneath an overhang. She wore a dark hoodie, her damp hair falling forward as she looked down at something in her hands, her back to him. At her feet rested what looked like an instrument case.

Garrison's pupils violently contracted.

He strode over, splashing muddy rainwater all over his legs, and reached out to grab her shoulder from behind.

Garrison stood frozen in place, completely numb to the freezing water running down his neck and seeping into his collar.

He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead—

Only when his fingers brushed his skin did he realize how terrifyingly cold his hands were. His fingertips were entirely numb, feeling like stiff, frozen twigs pulled from ice water.

He had been running around this night market for nearly forty minutes, pushing open every door, asking, apologizing, and backing out. The rain had completely soaked his shirt, weighing heavily on his shoulders as water dripped from his hem with every step.

His pants clung wetly to his calves, and his shoes squelched loudly, filled with water. His breaths plumed into short, frantic white clouds in the chill air, like an overloaded engine slowly losing its heat.

Then, the stomach cramps started.

It wasn't a sudden, sharp agony, but a familiar, dull, and continuous tightening ache. It twisted upward from the pit of his stomach, feeling as if a freezing hand was slowly clenching his insides...