The Savior’s Trap

The alarm buzzed, though there was no reason for it anymore. Elena silenced it with a single tap and lay still, staring at the pale ceiling. The other side of the bed was untouched, as it had been for months—cold sheets, smooth pillow, a reminder of promises that had scattered like dust. Her husband had left for a younger woman, and her son had gone off to college. Two absences, different in weight but equal in silence, pressed down on the house. She rose slowly, moving through the too-large rooms as though she were only a guest. The kitchen greeted her with clean counters and stacked dishes—untouched, unnecessary. She filled the kettle, listening to the hollow rush of water. When it boiled, she brewed her coffee and poured it into a paper cup, just as she did every morning, though she had nowhere urgent to be. Habit was all she had left. Passing through the living room, her eyes caught on something leaning against the wall: a baseball bat, scuffed at the grip, taped near the handle. Her son’s. She froze for a moment, the memory of him rushing into the house after practice flashing sharp and bright. Muddy shoes, laughter, the way he would wave the bat like a sword, shouting that he was invincible. She touched the bat’s handle with her fingertips, tracing the peeling tape. How quickly it had all passed. Yesterday he was a boy with scraped knees; today he was nearly a man, living on his own, too busy to call his mother more than once a week. Children grew too fast. They outgrew homes, outgrew parents, leaving behind only relics. Her throat tightened. She turned away, forcing herself back into motion. She opened the fridge, stared at half-empty shelves, and closed it again. Breakfast was an afterthought now. She settled for a slice of dry toast, chewing without taste. The clock ticked in the corner, loud in the stillness. The phone vibrated on the counter, lighting up the dark screen. She reached for it quickly, a tiny hope flickering that it might be her son. But it wasn’t. “Are you coming to yoga this evening?” the voice of her friend Liza chirped brightly, almost rehearsed. Elena forced a smile that no one could see. “Of course. Same time as always.” The schedule was unyielding—yoga on Mondays, book club on Wednesdays, groceries on Fridays. Every hour accounted for, every day an echo of the last. The structure was meant to keep her from unraveling. And yet, it made her feel like a ghost moving through someone else’s calendar. “Good,” Liza replied, satisfied, already moving on to the next task in her own perfectly ordered life. “See you there.” The call ended. Silence returned, heavier than before. By the mirror in the hallway she adjusted her hair, touched her lips with pale lipstick, and pulled on the jacket that hung limply by the door. She looked at herself longer than she meant to. A composed woman in her forties stared back—neat, respectable, perfectly ordinary. Only the eyes betrayed something else: a quiet desperation, a question she could not form into words. Keys in hand, bag on her shoulder, coffee cup warm against her palm, she locked the front door with a firm turn of the key. The metallic click echoed like final punctuation. She walked across the driveway, heels striking the pavement in sharp rhythm, climbed into her car, and started the engine. The morning street was empty. Curtains twitched in neighbors’ windows, dogs barked faintly in the distance. She drove away, her car humming into the quiet world, carrying her toward another day of routine. But she did not know she was not alone. A car sat idling farther down the street, tucked against the curb in the shade of an overgrown tree. Inside, a man sat perfectly still, eyes fixed on her every move. He had been there long before her door opened. He had watched her lock it, had noted the precise way she held her cup, had memorized the color of her lipstick. His fingers drummed once on the steering wheel as she pulled out of the driveway and disappeared into the traffic beyond the neighborhood. He leaned back in his seat, a faint smile crossing his lips. The game had already begun.