Victor continued to write, his eyes from time to time going to the journal inside which he'd placed the Moleskine with his draft. It was really rather curious, he thought.
But then, he was trying not to think on it, trying to avoid considering just why all of these places seemed familiar -- the ancient ones, that is, the marvels of architecture, the sort of tourist traps he felt compelled to visit, to write about, he'd convinced himself, though he knew it was more than that. He was fighting it, fighting the urge to write in the pages, fighting the urge to rehash the dream with the girl who turned to a tree, of the arrows shot over endless armies, of -- he stopped himself from thinking of it.
Instead, he turned back to the writing, taking another sip of his coffee. He frowned. Something stronger was in order. He placed the journal, and the Moleskine inside, on the table in front of him and leaned forward, rubbing his temples and drinking again. The sight of a familiar figure made him look twice, but he brushed it off.
She was aesthetically pleasing, he had to admit, but he feared looking at her again, reigniting those feelings of familiarity. He drank more coffee, wishing it was a nice single malt.