In his cage

Rain drummed over the city like a pulse that never stopped. It slid down the narrow streets, glossy as oil, turning every cobblestone into a mirror. Streetlamps burned through the mist with a feverish glow, and the air smelled of river water and iron.

Nina pulled her coat tighter as she hurried across the bridge toward her apartment, her umbrella trembling in the wind. The cold had crept under her skin hours ago, numbing her fingers, but she barely noticed. All she could think about was warmth—hot tea, quiet, the hum of her old radiator.

Ljubljana at midnight was a strange place. The tourists were gone, cafés shuttered, the sound of laughter drowned beneath the hiss of rain. Only the river moved, restless and black, curling beneath the arches like a secret.

Nina’s reflection followed her in every puddle: pale face, damp hair, eyes too tired for twenty-two. Marketing student. Café worker. Rent is barely paid. Life reduced to timetables and deadlines.

Yet tonight, something felt wrong.

It wasn’t the weather or the hour. It was the silence.

She had walked these streets a hundred times, but never like this—never with the sense that the air itself was listening. Every sound seemed to echo back too slowly: the click of her boots, the whisper of her breath. Her skin prickled with awareness.

A shape flickered in the corner of her eye. When she turned, there was nothing—only a lamppost flickering behind a curtain of rain.

“Paranoid,” she muttered to herself, forcing a laugh. “Too much caffeine.”

But her body didn’t believe her.

She lengthened her stride, the umbrella tilting against the wind. The glow of her apartment building finally came into view, yellow and warm against the grey. Relief loosened her chest—until she saw it.

A book.

It sat neatly on the top step, as if waiting for her.

Nina slowed. The rain had soaked through her coat by now, but she hardly felt it. She bent to pick the book up, fingers brushing the slick leather. It was old—black cover, no title, only a strange symbol etched into the front: a circle split by a vertical line. The engraving caught the lamplight like a scar.

Her pulse quickened. She should leave it there. She knew she should.

But curiosity was a fragile thing—too easily broken, too easily fed.

She lifted the book. It was heavy, cold against her palms. The lock on her door stuck, as it always did, and by the time she wrestled it open she was shivering. She flicked the light switch. A dim glow spread across the small apartment: bed, desk, shelves stacked with textbooks. Home.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a moment, everything was still—the steady rhythm of the rain outside, the hum of the refrigerator, her heartbeat finding its rhythm again.

Then she looked down at the book.

Water droplets glimmered on its surface. She set it on the desk, peeled off her coat, and hesitated. The silence pressed close, too intimate. She almost expected the book to move on its own.

Finally, she opened it.

The pages smelled of dust and something metallic, like old ink. Notes filled the margins—handwritten, careful, deliberate. Lines about lectures, coffee orders, errands. But they weren’t random. They were about her.

Her name appeared in precise script: Nina.

She blinked, reread. Her breath stuttered.

“Nina doesn’t realise how much she underlines when she studies. She always marks the wrong details first.”

A chill spread up her spine.

She turned another page.

“She bites the inside of her cheek when she’s nervous. She prefers the river to the square. She pretends not to listen when people talk about her.”