Chapter 3 - I see you
1924 Words
Chapter 3 – I See You
“Sometimes, the first instinct that something is wrong isn’t fear.
It’s the feeling that the world has become just a little too quiet.”
The following Thursday began like every other Thursday.
At precisely seven o’clock, Elara’s phone rang.
“Dad.”
She answered before the second ring.
“Good morning, sweetheart.”
His voice carried the familiar warmth that had survived years of distance, loss, and change.
“You’re early.”
“I’ve been told punctuality is one of my few redeeming qualities.”
She laughed.
“Who told you that?”
“You.”
“I don’t remember saying it.”
“You were eight.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts.”
Elara smiled as she tied the ribbon around a bouquet of fresh white lilies.
Every Thursday, she visited Margaret’s grave.
Every Thursday, her father called first.
It had become their unspoken ritual.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
“A little.”
“A little isn’t enough.”
She rolled her eyes affectionately.
“You’re starting to sound like Ethan.”
“I like Ethan.”
“I know you do.”
“Has he proposed yet?”
“Dad.”
“What?”
“You ask me every month.”
“And every month I’m disappointed.”
She laughed again.
“We’re taking our time.”
“You’re twenty-six.”
“And?”
“I’d like grandchildren before I need a walking stick.”
“You don’t even own one.”
“Preparation is important.”
She smiled, shaking her head.
Conversations with her father always ended the same way.
With laughter.
With love.
With the quiet reassurance that, despite everything life had taken from them, they still had each other.
After they hung up, Elara slipped the bouquet into a paper sleeve and locked the bookstore behind her.
The cemetery was only a fifteen-minute walk.
She preferred walking.
It gave her time to think.
The streets of Blackhaven were just beginning to wake.
A florist arranged roses outside her shop.
A baker placed fresh bread in the display window.
Cyclists hurried toward work.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing threatening.
Halfway to the cemetery, she stopped at a pedestrian crossing.
As she waited for the light to change, she caught sight of someone in the reflection of a shop window.
A man.
Standing several metres behind her.
Dark jacket.
Baseball cap.
Looking at his phone.
When the light turned green, she crossed.
So did he.
She frowned ever so slightly.
Probably a coincidence.
At the next intersection, she turned left instead of right.
Not because she needed to.
Simply because she suddenly felt like taking the longer route.
A few moments later, she glanced into another shop window.
The same man.
Still behind her.
Not close enough to speak.
Not far enough to ignore.
Her heartbeat quickened.
Don’t be ridiculous, she thought.
People walk in the same direction every day.
She forced herself to keep moving.
By the time she reached the cemetery gates, the feeling had faded.
When she looked back…
The man was gone.
See?
Your imagination.
She exhaled slowly before stepping inside.
The cemetery was peaceful.
Tall oak trees swayed gently in the breeze.
Birdsong drifted through the morning air.
She followed the familiar path without needing to read the names on the stones.
Margaret Holloway.
Beloved Aunt.
Beloved Friend.
Beloved Keeper of Stories.
Elara knelt and placed the lilies in the vase.
“Hi.”
She smiled softly.
“I’m sorry I missed last week.”
Silence answered.
It never bothered her.
She had long ago learned that love didn’t end because conversations became one-sided.
“I sold another copy of Anne of Green Gables.”
A small laugh escaped her.
“You would’ve approved.”
She brushed a few fallen leaves from the headstone.
“Mrs. Holloway still forgets her teacup.”
“Ben still complains every time a delivery arrives.”
“And…”
She looked down at her hands.
“Ethan found another cottage for us to visit.”
A smile touched her lips.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You would’ve loved the garden.”
Her smile slowly faded.
“I wish you could’ve met our children one day.”
A tear rolled silently down her cheek.
“I think…”
Her voice trembled.
“…I would’ve been a good mum.”
The wind stirred gently through the trees.
Somewhere nearby, a raven called.
“I hope you’d be proud of me.”
Behind a row of old cedar trees, a camera shutter clicked once.
Almost too quietly to hear.
A man lowered the camera.
His expression never changed.
He sent the photograph.
09:12
Target at cemetery.
Emotional state: reflective.
A reply came moments later.
Maintain visual contact.
The man slipped the phone back into his pocket.
He never noticed another figure standing much farther away.
Watching him.
Lucien Moreau lowered the newspaper he’d been pretending to read.
His attention wasn’t on Elara.
It was on the man photographing her.
His eyes hardened.
For the first time…
He had seen the threat with his own eyes.
Elara remained kneeling for a long moment, her fingertips resting lightly against the cool stone.
The cemetery had always been the one place where she never felt the need to pretend she was okay.
She could cry without anyone asking questions.
She could laugh at old memories without feeling foolish.
Most importantly…
She could still talk to Margaret.
“You would’ve laughed at me yesterday,” she said, smiling through damp eyes.
“I caught myself arguing with the kettle again.”
A soft breeze stirred the lilies.
“It still whistles too loudly.”
She chuckled.
“I can almost hear you saying, ‘That’s because it has opinions.’”
Her smile faded into something quieter.
“I miss your opinions.”
She lowered her gaze to the engraved letters on the headstone.
“There are so many things I still want to ask you.”
She paused.
“Do you ever stop needing the people you lose?”
Silence answered.
She had asked that question dozens of times over the years.
The answer never came.
Slowly, she reached into her handbag and removed a small cloth.
It had become another ritual.
Every Thursday, she wiped the headstone until it shone.
Margaret had once joked that if anyone ever visited her grave, they should at least make sure she looked respectable.
“So stubborn,” Elara whispered fondly.
She polished the stone carefully.
When she finished, she sat back on the small wooden bench nearby.
Children’s laughter drifted from the park beyond the cemetery wall.
She watched a little girl chase bubbles while her father clapped dramatically every time one burst.
For a brief moment…
She imagined herself there.
Years from now.
A little cottage.
Green shutters.
Lavender dancing in the breeze.
Ethan reading on the porch while two children argued over whose turn it was to feed the dog.
The image made her smile.
It also made her heart ache.
Because dreams always felt fragile.
Like glass.
Beautiful…
But capable of breaking without warning.
…
Hidden several rows away, the man in the baseball cap adjusted the zoom on his camera.
He had taken twelve photographs already.
None of them would have meant anything to anyone else.
Elara arranging flowers.
Elara wiping the headstone.
Elara smiling at a memory.
Ordinary moments.
His employer wanted ordinary moments.
He had long ago stopped trying to understand why.
His phone vibrated.
Status?
He typed without hesitation.
Target remains alone.
Before he could send it…
Movement caught the corner of his eye.
A tall man in a charcoal overcoat entered through the eastern gate.
The stalker’s instincts sharpened immediately.
The man wasn’t visiting a grave.
He wasn’t carrying flowers.
He wasn’t wandering.
He was watching.
The stalker subtly lowered his camera.
Instinct told him not to attract attention.
…
Lucien slowed his pace.
From a distance, he saw Elara sitting quietly on the bench, completely unaware of the world beyond her thoughts.
He didn’t allow himself to look for long.
Instead, his attention shifted to the man with the camera.
There.
Third row from the old oak tree.
Grey cap.
Professional camera.
Calm posture.
Not a grieving relative.
Not a tourist.
A watcher.
Lucien walked past without breaking stride.
His expression remained unreadable.
Only Damien, who had accompanied him from several metres behind, noticed the slight tightening of Lucien’s jaw.
“You were right,” Damien murmured.
Lucien kept his eyes forward.
“He photographs her when she believes she’s alone.”
Damien’s voice was barely audible.
“My team can take him now.”
“No.”
Damien looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because he’s not the one giving the orders.”
“If we remove him…”
Lucien glanced briefly toward the man.
“…another one will replace him.”
“And we’ll lose our only thread.”
Damien nodded reluctantly.
He understood.
Lucien wasn’t hunting the stalker.
He was hunting the person who had sent him.
…
Elara stood, brushed the grass from her skirt, and smiled gently at the headstone.
“I’ll see you next Thursday.”
She hesitated before adding,
“And… if you can somehow put in a good word for me up there…”
She laughed softly.
“…I’d appreciate it.”
Turning toward the gate, she adjusted the strap of her handbag and began walking home.
She never noticed the two men standing on opposite sides of the cemetery.
One watching to protect.
The other watching to report.
Neither of them stepped into her path.
Neither of them spoke.
To Elara…
It was simply another Thursday morning.
…
As she left the cemetery, she stopped at a small bakery she visited almost every week.
The owner looked up and smiled.
“The usual?”
She nodded.
“And one cinnamon roll.”
“For Ethan?”
She smiled.
“He claims he doesn’t like sweets.”
The baker laughed.
“And yet he always finishes the cinnamon roll.”
“He says he’s only helping me.”
“Very noble of him.”
Carrying the warm paper bag, Elara stepped back onto the pavement.
The rich scent of fresh bread filled the cool morning air.
It reminded her that happiness often lived in the smallest moments.
A favorite bakery.
A familiar face.
A warm loaf of bread.
A bookstore waiting to be opened.
She had no idea how quickly ordinary mornings could disappear.
Across the street, the stalker watched her leave the bakery.
He raised his camera one last time.
Click.
Then lowered it.
This photograph was different.
For the first time, another man appeared in the edge of the frame.
Not clearly.
Just the outline of a tall figure standing beneath the shade of an old elm tree.
The stalker frowned.
He enlarged the image.
The face wasn’t visible.
But something about the man’s posture unsettled him.
He sent the report anyway.
Within seconds, his phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“I’ve sent today’s update.”
A cold voice replied,
“I’ve seen it.”
A pause followed.
“There’s someone else.”
The stalker’s eyes searched the street.
“I noticed.”
“Find out who he is.”
The line went dead.
For the first time since accepting the assignment…
The stalker realized he might not be the only hunter following Elara Holloway.
And somewhere, just beyond his sight…
Someone else had already begun following him.
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