Chapter 17 Ghost In The Streetlight
Aurora:
Seattle evenings have a certain sound. The hiss of tires on wet pavement, a bus sighing somewhere down the block, and that faint metallic hum before the streetlights blink on.
It used to comfort me, like the city’s heartbeat.
Now it feels like someone else’s pulse pressing too close to my skin.
“Mom, hurry!” Lior tugs at my hand, his little boots splashing through a puddle.
“Sweetheart, slow down. It’s not a race.”
Aria giggles behind him, umbrella spinning like a propeller. “He just wants to beat the rain!”
They’re both glowing with end-of-day energy, and I’m half a step behind, trying to balance grocery bags and sanity. It’s been weeks of tight deadlines and sleepless nights since my editor reassigned me from the corruption series to “human-interest fluff.” I told Warren it felt like punishment. He told me it was a safety precaution.
He doesn’t know about the anonymous emails.
He doesn’t know I’ve started checking behind me every time the wind changes.
The corner light flickers as we reach our building. A chill races up my spine.
I scan the street automatically. Empty sidewalk. One parked car. The scent of rain and exhaust. Nothing unusual. Still, my heartbeat won’t settle.
Lior tilts his head. “Mom?”
“Hmm?”
He frowns. “Somebody’s here.”
The words are soft, matter-of-fact, like he’s describing the weather. Sometimes he acts too old for his age.
Aria looks up from her umbrella. “I feel it too. Like…” She searches for the word. “…Someone is hiding.”
I force a laugh that sounds thinner than I mean it to. “You two and your imagination.” I guide them toward the door, keycard already in hand.
But before the lock clicks, I glance over my shoulder once more.
There’s nothing there.
Except the faint smell of smoke that shouldn’t linger in rain.
Inside, the elevator mirrors catch our reflections, three faces framed by tired fluorescent light. I look like a woman still pretending everything’s fine.
Aria hums softly, a tune I don’t recognize.
“What’s that song?”
“Don’t know,” she says, still humming. “It just came.”
Something about it tightens my throat.
Our apartment greets us with the usual chaos: backpacks on the floor, the smell of coffee gone stale, and the tiny succulent Maggie gave me drooping by the window like it’s had enough of this world.
“Dinner first, cartoons later,” I announce.
Lior groans. Aria negotiates for dessert. Normal. Safe. Almost convincing.
While they wash up, I set the groceries down and pour myself a glass of water. My hand trembles just enough to spill a few drops on the counter.
That scent again, smoke, faint but sharp. Not from cooking. From outside.
I cross to the window. Streetlights glow amber below. Nothing but wet pavement, a passing bus, a stray cat. And yet… something feels wrong, like the night is watching back.
The curtain moves, even though the window is closed.
“Mom?”
I jump. Aria stands behind me, hair damp from the rain, holding her stuffed fox. Her voice is small. “You smell him, don’t you?”
My mouth goes dry. “Smell who?”
“The man from the rain.”
My pulse stutters. “Aria, we talked about making up stories…”
“I’m not making it up,” she insists. “He smells like trees and smoke. And he’s sad.”
I crouch to her level, brushing wet strands from her face. “Baby, there’s no man. It’s just your imagination, okay?”
She studies me for a long moment, far too serious for four years old. “He looked at me, Mommy. He said to stay close.”
A heartbeat later, she’s off chasing her brother to the living room.
I stay frozen, the words echoing in my head.
He said to stay close.
Later, after bedtime battles and a story half-read, I sit at my desk, laptop open, cursor blinking on an unfinished article. The kids’ laughter has faded into the rhythm of their breathing down the hall.
I try to type, but my focus slips. Every few minutes, I glance at the window again. Still nothing.
Maybe the stress is finally eating through what’s left of my logic. Maybe all mothers become paranoid eventually.
I scroll through unread emails instead. One subject line catches my eye:
STOP LOOKING.
No sender listed. No signature.
I delete it without opening it, but the word lingers in my head like static.
The intercom buzzes, loud enough to make me flinch.
It’s Maggie.
“Girl, open up! I come bearing cheap wine and unsolicited advice!”
I laugh despite the adrenaline spike. “It’s nine o’clock!”
“Exactly. Prime time for bad decisions and comfort snacks.”
When she steps in, she’s all red lipstick, damp curls, and perfume that could knock sense into the dead. “You look like someone who’s been haunted by spreadsheets or ghosts. Which is it tonight?”
“Maybe both,” I say, forcing a smile. “The kids are asleep.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And you’re not? Shocker.”
Maggie pours wine without asking, flops on the couch, and lowers her voice. “You know, I passed a tall guy near the corner. Weird eyes. Looked lost. You sure your new neighborhood isn’t crawling with creepers?”
My heart stutters. “What kind of eyes?”
She squints. “Can't tell. Gold, maybe? Could’ve been reflection. Why?”
I shake my head too quickly. “No reason.”
“Hmm.” She studies me over her glass. “You’re jumpy, Rora. You need sleep. Or sex. Preferably both.”
“Thank you for your medical opinion, Dr. Bishop.”
She grins. “Anytime.”
Her chatter fills the apartment, wrapping over the silence I didn’t realize was suffocating me. For the first time all day, I breathe normally.
By the time she leaves, the wine’s half gone, and the shadows in the hall look less like monsters.
After midnight, I check on the twins. Both asleep, Aria’s fox tucked under one arm, Lior’s blanket kicked halfway off.
I lean down, kiss their foreheads. My eyes sting.
He smells like trees and smoke.
I glance toward the curtained window again, whispering to the dark, “Whoever you are, stay away from my children.”
No answer. Only rain sliding down the glass.
But as I turn off the light, a faint warmth brushes across my mark… the one below my collarbone. It pulses once, gentle as a heartbeat.
And somewhere outside, under the whisper of streetlights, I could swear I hear someone exhale the word:
Safe.