CHAPTER FOUR
465 Words
Leah woke to an empty apartment.
The silence was almost too quiet, like it had been arranged that way.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. No name. Just a single message:
Do you always keep the curtains open when you sleep?
She stared at the screen, pulse flickering. Her windows were on the twelfth floor. The only people who could see in were across the street, and the man who had stood in her living room last night.
She set the phone down, ignoring the chill that crept up her arms, and went to the kitchen. The air still smelled faintly of him—something expensive, sharp, and wrong. She made coffee, trying to drown the unease in normalcy.
Her first meeting was at 9:00. She left early, heels clicking against the marble floor of the building’s lobby. As the elevator doors slid shut, she caught her reflection—hair loose, eyes restless, a shadow under her cheekbone that hadn’t been there yesterday.
When she arrived at the office, the receptionist handed her a small, white envelope.
“It was delivered for you this morning,” the woman said, smiling like it was nothing.
Inside was a single photo. Black and white.
It was of her—ten years younger, standing in a rain-slick alley she hadn’t thought about in years. Her coat was torn, her hands shoved into her pockets, and in the corner of the frame, blurred but there, was a man’s hand gripping her elbow.
No note.
Leah sat down hard at her desk, breath catching. She had never told anyone in this city about that night.
At lunch, she ducked into a quiet café. She stirred her tea and kept her eyes on the street. At exactly 1:15, Henry walked in. Not looking for her. Not needing to. His gaze slid over the room, landed on her like it had always been there.
“Leah,” he said, as if her name belonged to him.
She wanted to ask about the photo, but his presence pushed the question back down her throat. Instead, she said, “You weren’t here this morning.”
“Wasn’t I?” His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “You dream when you sleep with the curtains open.”
Her hand tightened on the cup. “And you watch?”
“I notice things,” he said simply, leaning closer. “And I remember things, too. You… don’t forget as easily, do you?”
Her heart lurched. He didn’t mention the photo, but the air between them thickened with the weight of it.
When she stood to leave, he didn’t stop her. But as she stepped out into the cold wind, her phone buzzed again.
You shouldn’t pretend the past is gone, Leah. It isn’t.
- Writer
