The apartment was exactly as she'd left it.
The key had turned the same way.The door creaked the same.The silence inside—identical.
And yet.
There was a jacket on the back of her chair. Not hers.Not something she'd ever bought. Or worn.It was dark, a little wet, faintly crumpled, like it had been used—recently.
She stood there for a long moment, backpack still on, groceries still in hand.
She hadn't had company. Not in weeks.No one had a spare key.
She pressed two fingers against the fabric. Cold.Smelled it.Rain. Not fresh. But distant. Dimmed.And something metallic underneath.
The kind of scent that lingered from a place, not a person.
She dropped her bag, shoes, everything.Went through the apartment—room by room.Nothing was missing.Nothing was out of place.But something had shifted.
The hallway light flickered once, then held steady.In the kitchen, the dish she'd left to dry was exactly where it should be—except it looked…cleaner.Wiped.
Back in the main room, she sat.The jacket still on the chair.Like it belonged. Like it had always belonged.
She turned on her phone.No messages.No missed calls.No alerts from the building.
But her camera app was open.Running.She didn't remember launching it.The last recorded clip was from today.
Ten seconds.Shaky. Sideways.Filmed from her pocket maybe?
It caught the back of someone walking just ahead of her.Black hoodie.Same hood.Same slow gait.
She paused it.Replayed it.Paused again.
She hadn't seen him that day. Had she?
It had rained.Like always.She'd gone to work.Like always.Same can. Same coins.Except—no chime. No look. No voice.
But the camera saw him.Her phone remembered for her.
That was worse.
She turned it off.Flicked on music. Low volume.A song she didn't usually like.Tonight, it fit.
She sat by the window.No reason.Just habit.Or maybe ritual.
Her fingers drummed lightly on the sill.
Across the street, one light flickered in an office tower.The kind of light that never shut off.
It pulsed.Not like a malfunction.More like a signal.
She stood. Closed the curtain.Too much fiction in her head.Or maybe not enough.
She moved the jacket off the chair.Folded it.Set it gently on her bed, without thinking.
That was a mistake.
Inside the collar—something crinkled.A folded piece of receipt paper.
She hesitated.Unfolded it.One line, handwritten, careful and straight.
"You missed something."
She didn't remember writing it.The penstroke wasn't hers.The way the "s" curved—too elegant. Too sure.
The back of the paper was blank.She turned it anyway.Half-hoping for more.Half-dreading it.
Nothing.
She stared at the jacket again.Didn't touch it this time.Just sat down, bare feet cold against the floorboards.
She didn't want to sleep.Not tonight.
But she turned off the lights.Because staying awake under full brightness felt worse.
In the dark, she heard it.
Something.A tap?No.A breath.
Not hers.
Held it.Waited.Counted slowly to ten.
Nothing.
She moved back to the window.Parted the curtain a few inches.
Empty street.Still light.Still rain.
But the pulse was gone.The office tower light—dark now.
She looked down.
A can.
Sitting at her door.Still sealed. Still cold.Lemon iced tea.Like always.
She opened the door.
No sound in the hallway.No motion sensor light.
She picked it up.Turned it over.
No note this time.Just a number.Drawn in black marker on the base.
4.
She didn't understand it.
But her stomach dropped like she did.
She took the can, closed the door, leaned against it.
Her breath left her in one long, quiet exhale.
Then—
From the hallway.
A knock.Soft.Barely audible.
She didn't move.Not yet.
Just stared at the number.
4.
It felt less like a count…And more like a warning.
She didn't open the door again.
Not yet.
Instead, she walked back toward the living room, the can still cold in her hand. The condensation had already started to gather along her fingers, wetting the note she hadn't written, soaking into the paper like it was trying to erase itself.
She left the can on the table.Didn't drink it.Couldn't.It felt like drinking it would mean saying yes to something she hadn't agreed to.
She sat. Listened.
Nothing from the hallway now. No second knock.Not even the quiet hum of someone retreating.
If they were still out there, they weren't moving.
If they'd gone, they hadn't left the usual trace: footsteps, breath, shift in pressure.Just the can. And the number. And that single, soft knock that still echoed down her spine.
Her phone buzzed once.
She jumped.
Not a call.Just an alert.
Battery low.7%.
She plugged it in but didn't turn it over.Didn't want the light.Didn't want any more reflections.
A breeze lifted the curtain.The window was closed.
She checked.Still locked.Still sealed.
But the air had shifted.
The room smelled faintly of metal again. And dust.Not unpleasant.Just not hers.
She stood up.Paused.
Something underfoot.
She bent slowly.Picked it up.
A folded square of black fabric.
Her old scarf.
She hadn't worn it in months.Hadn't seen it since spring.
It was clean. Pressed flat like it had been ironed.Inside, tucked where no one would have thought to look — a second receipt.
This one had no words.Just numbers.
6:03 AM03.12
Today.An hour from now.
She looked at the clock.5:02 AM.
She sat down again.
Her eyes kept drifting to the front door.
She didn't know if she was waiting for something to happen at 6:03…or for the courage to stop it before it did.
The jacket was still on the bed.Still damp.Still not hers.
The number on the can. The knock. The scarf. The time.
Everything was aligning.But toward what?
She considered the can.Just sitting there.Innocent.
She reached for it.
Her fingers stopped just before touching.
She closed her eyes.Held her breath.
The door handle moved.Just a whisper.A test.Not a full turn.
Just enough to say: I could.
Lina didn't scream.Didn't move.Didn't run.
She whispered, too softly for anyone to hear:
"…I know."
The handle went still.
And from behind the door:A voice.
Soft. Calm.Almost…warm.
"Don't be late."
Then silence.
She didn't open the door.
Not yet.