Glass bottles
703 Words
Liv unlocked the door.
Her fingers hesitated for half a second on the handle, breath steady, mind racing. She opened it slowly.
Her heartbeat punched her ribs.
The hallway was empty.
But there — dead center on the doormat — sat two glass bottles of milk.
She froze.
Her expression dropped from calculated interest to flat disappointment. “Milk?”
But as she reached down to pick them up, something snapped into place in her brain.
She looked at the wall clock. 1:16 AM.
Her dad never appointed a milkman.
She turned the bottles in her hand. No brand. No label. No condensation.
Just cold.
She glanced up and saw the elevator lights flicker. The digital floor counter blinked — 13 → 12 → 11... → B
Basement.
Someone had just gone down. Right after leaving the bottles.
She slammed the door shut and bolted it tight.
---
Back at her desk, heart still pacing like it was late for something, Liv slid into her chair and whispered:
“If I get murdered over dairy, bury me with almond milk.”
She reached for her pen. Notebook open.
Time: 1:16 AM
Object: 2 unmarked milk bottles
Lift Status: Active — went to basement after delivery
Question: Who's delivering at 1:16 AM? And why us?
She circled the word “WHY” three times.
---
3:30 AM
She was just pushing back her chair to get her fifth coffee when something made her stop.
Movement.
Not inside.
Outside.
She leaned forward, breath fogging the glass just slightly. Two figures. Men.
Walking down the empty road in front of the building.
Both wore the same outfit — black pants, sky blue shirts. But they weren’t just walking. They were doing slow, synchronized movements.
Like exercising while walking.
No bags. No phones. No dogs. Just moving in perfect sync. Step. Turn. Jump. Step again.
She didn’t blink.
Slowly, Liv reached out and switched off her study lamp.
Darkness swallowed her desk.
She didn’t want them to see her. Not yet. Not from the street. Not from below.
She crouched low, barely breathing.
Then glanced at the clock. 3:31 AM.
A grin broke across her face.
“Finally,” she whispered. “Something weird I can work with.”
She flipped to a new page in her notebook:
Time: 3:30 AM
Subjects: 2 adult males, matching clothing
Behavior: synchronized walking/exercising
Action: Observed from road directly in front of building
She capped her pen. Satisfied.
The game had just begun.
Liv chugged the rest of her black coffee straight from the mug. Still hot. Still bitter. Still hers.
And then — she slept.
Yes, just like that. Eyes closed. Head on pillow. Chaos in her head. Because Liv was different.
---
Morning — or, as Liv called it: 11:00 AM
She blinked awake to the sound of cabinet doors and the smell of disinfectant. Her mom had already conquered 90% of the chores. Yara was on the couch, phone in hand, probably scrolling memes or bullying group chats with voice notes.
Liv dragged herself to the kitchen, flicked on the coffee machine, moved like muscle memory through her brewing process, then vanished to brush her teeth and wash up.
Ten minutes later, coffee in hand, she reentered the hall like she owned it.
“Morning, Gremlin,” Yara said without looking up.
“Morning, Trash Panda,” Liv shot back. “Did mom ever tell you we picked you up from a clearance bin?”
“Yeah, right. You’re the one who came with a return policy.”
“Well, they tried. But I hacked the system.”
Yara rolled her eyes. “You hacked the toaster last week and nearly set the bread on fire.”
“And it still worked better than your brain on Mondays.”
Their mom walked by with a laundry basket. Liv leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “You're a warrior. If the dust bunnies rise, call me.”
“Thanks, baby,” her mom said, clearly too tired to question her daughter's cryptic support.
Liv downed her coffee, sat at her desk, cracked her knuckles.
Time to investigate.
The hunt was on.
- Writer
