Chapter three: Note He Left Behind
645 Words
The next morning, sunlight spilt across the floor like a blessing.
Warm. Soft. Undisturbed.
Birdsong drifted in through the half-open window, light as breath, as if the world outside hadn’t witnessed the chaos of the night before.
Amara stirred beneath the covers, slowly surfacing from sleep, her body sore in places she hadn’t noticed the night before. Her arm brushed against the sheets beside her—
Cold.
Empty.
She turned.
The bed was bare.
Her heart stuttered.
Gone.
The pillow still held the faint imprint of his head. The shape of him barely faded, as if he’d only just risen. But the warmth was missing.
She sat up fast, the sheet clutched to her chest. Her eyes scanned the room, wild and urgent.
She climbed out of bed, her pulse hammering. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, she told herself. Maybe he went to get water or needed air.
She checked the bathroom. Empty. No towel is missing. There is no sound of running water.
Kitchen? Still. Undisturbed.
She flung open the front door barefoot, stepping out onto the porch. Morning dew clung to the ground. The air was cool and sharp. The sky stretched wide and clear.
But he was nowhere.
Not on the grounds. Not behind the house. Not in the shadows where she had first found him, bleeding and half-conscious.
Nothing.
It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole.
Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her lips, trying to catch her breath. Did someone come for him? Did he leave because he thought he was protecting me? Her thoughts tumbled over one another, colliding in panic.
And then she saw it.
A single piece of paper.
Resting on her study table—placed so precisely it looked unnatural, like a tombstone in a field of stillness.
She walked to it slowly, as though the distance might change what was written. As though the closer she got, the more it might explain.
It didn’t.
Two words. Scrawled in dark ink.
Thank you.
That was it.
No name. There was no trace of who he was. No explanation. There is no way to reach him.
Just a final breath of gratitude from a ghost she hadn’t realized she’d let into her heart.
She stood there for a long time, staring at the note.
The ache started slow.
Low.
Then it bloomed behind her ribs like fire—quiet but all-consuming.
It made no sense. He was a stranger. A man with blood on his shirt, shadows in his eyes, and scars that didn’t look like they came from a fair fight. A man who refused to tell her the truth. A man she should’ve run from.
But she hadn’t.
She had seen past the danger. Past the deflection. She had seen the wounded soul beneath the mask, and now… she felt his absence like a missing heartbeat.
For days, Amara moved through her routines like a ghost herself. She kept the note on her nightstand, folded and unfolded it, and traced the handwriting with her thumb like it might reveal more if she touched it enough times.
Sometimes, she’d hear something at the window and turn too quickly.
Sometimes, she’d dream of him—of his voice, of the way he looked at her like she was the first light he’d seen in years.
She didn’t even know his full name.
She only knew that when he looked at her, he wasn’t just a wounded stranger.
He was someone trying to remember who he used to be.
And now he was gone.
But somehow, that note—those two simple words—kept him alive in her mind.
He didn’t want to be found.
And yet, she found herself hoping—aching—that he would return.
Because whatever passed between them that night hadn’t ended.
It had only just begun
- Writer
