Over the next week, Ava began seeing Damien everywhere.
At the coffee shop where she liked to sit and write, he'd be there — always with a black coffee, always alone. On the subway platform, she'd catch him standing just far enough away to look like a stranger, but never far enough to disappear from sight. Even in the park one evening, when she was sure she was alone, she glanced up to find him sitting on a bench, a closed book in his hand, his gaze fixed on her.
At first, she told herself it was coincidence. But coincidences didn't happen this often, not with the same person.
One night, curiosity got the better of her. She crossed the coffee shop floor and sat opposite him. "You know," she began, "most people say hello when they run into someone three times in one week."
He looked at her with that calm, unreadable expression. "And some people," he replied, "don't believe in coincidence."
His words unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. "So which are you?" she asked.
His mouth curved slightly. "The second one."
That night, when Ava returned to her apartment, she found an envelope under her door. Inside was a single photograph — her, taken from across the street, walking home from work. The edges of the photo were slightly bent, the ink still fresh enough to smudge if she touched it.
Her stomach tightened. She didn't know who had taken it, but she knew who she needed to ask.
When she showed it to Damien the next day, he didn't look surprised. "It's started," he said simply.
"What's started?" she demanded.
He stood, putting on his gloves. "If you stay close to me, Ava, you'll get your answers. But you might not like them."
---