The silence inside my apartment when I stepped through the door felt too clean, too deliberate, like someone had vacuumed away every trace of comfort and left behind only the scent of something waiting to strike.
I tossed my keys onto the counter and leaned against the cold marble, my palms flat, eyes unfocused, heart still hammering against my ribs from the near-accident that had stolen my breath just minutes earlier and replaced it with a fear I hadn’t tasted since childhood.
It hadn’t been reckless driving.
It hadn’t been fate.
It was a warning.
The kind of message you send when you want someone shaken, but not shattered yet.
I moved slowly through the hallway, letting each step echo too loudly on the hardwood floors, as if the walls needed to remember I was still alive, still sta
