Chapter 2 Chapter 2
Morning arrived like a cruel joke.
Grey light spilt through the blinds, thin and cold, painting the apartment in ash. Nina hadn’t slept; she’d only drifted in and out of half-dreams where the book whispered her name and the rain turned into footsteps.
The white rose sat on the windowsill where she’d found it. She should have thrown it away. Instead, it stayed — pale against the glass, a quiet accusation.
Her reflection looked hollow.
Dark circles under her eyes, lips bloodless, hair a damp tangle. She tugged on a sweater two sizes too big and told herself she had to move. She had class. Deadlines. A life.
Normal things.
Ordinary things.
Things that didn’t involve anonymous books and roses in the rain.
But the moment she picked up her bag, the weight of the leather-bound volume inside made her stomach twist. She’d meant to leave it behind. She couldn’t.
Outside, the air bit cold. The city steamed faintly from the storm, cobblestones slick and shining. People moved through the streets again, voices soft, umbrellas blooming like dark flowers.
Everything was ordinary.
Except she wasn’t.
She walked faster than usual, head down, pretending she didn’t feel eyes on her back. Pretending the sound of her own footsteps didn’t echo too clearly.
By the time she reached campus, the morning had blurred into a steady hum — lectures, coffee, papers passed down the row. She tried to listen, tried to write, but her pen moved without direction, sketching circles and half-formed words.
When the professor dismissed them, her friend Lara caught her arm. “You look terrible.”
“Didn’t sleep,” Nina muttered.
“You never sleep.” Lara frowned, eyes narrowing. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” The lie slid out too easily.
Lara didn’t believe her, but let it go, distracted by the glow of her phone. Nina watched her walk away and envied her ease — the way she could laugh, exist, belong.
She wanted to feel that again.
The campus café smelled of roasted beans and sugar. Steam fogged the windows, turning the city outside into a blur of colour. Nina ordered an espresso and sat near the back, where she could see the door. Her laptop screen blinked awake.
She pulled the book from her bag, meaning to throw it away after a last glance — a final act of defiance. But when she opened it, the first line on the new page stopped her breath.
“You didn’t sleep last night.”
Her throat tightened.
New ink. Fresh. The letters gleamed faintly, darker than the others.
Someone had written this after she’d found the book.
She flipped faster, pages rustling. The next line:
“You looked at the window three times between two and four. You locked the door twice.”
Her vision blurred. Her pulse kicked hard against her ribs. She glanced around the café — students with laptops, a couple arguing quietly, an old man reading the newspaper. No one is watching. No one is obvious.
And yet—
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
Unknown: You forgot your umbrella.
Her hands went clammy. She looked at the floor — drops of rain still clung to her shoes. She had forgotten it in the lecture hall.
Her gaze swept the café again. A figure sat near the window, half hidden by the reflection: black coat, sleeves rolled neatly to the wrists, a cup untouched before him. She couldn’t see his face, only the sharp outline of his jaw and the pale flicker of his eyes when he looked up.
For one long second, their gazes met in the glass.
The world narrowed.
Her breath caught — not from recognition, but from something older, deeper. Instinct. Danger.
She stood abruptly, coffee spilling over her fingers, scalding her skin. The sound made him turn fully, and she caught the briefest glimpse: dark hair damp from the rain, features too symmetrical to be kind, eyes the cold grey of a storm sky.
Then he smiled. Barely. A ghost of a curve.
She fled.
Outside, the city swallowed her whole — noise, movement, the hiss of passing cars. She ran until her lungs burned, until she was halfway across the bridge, until she dared to glance back.
The café windows gleamed in the distance, empty. No figure, no eyes, just her reflection staring back.
That evening, the wind rose again. She cooked without appetite, stared at her phone until her vision swam. No new messages. No knock at the door.
When the clock hit midnight, she almost believed it was over.
And then the phone lit once more.
Unknown: Don’t run next time. You’ll fall.
Nina’s pulse stuttered. The message dissolved on the screen, vanishing before she could take a screenshot — as if it had never been there at all.
She dropped the phone. The room was silent except for the rain returning, soft and patient against the window.
Somewhere below, a car door slammed. A man’s voice murmured something she couldn’t catch. Then footsteps. Slow. Unhurried.
They stopped beneath her window.
She didn’t look. Couldn’t.
The seconds stretched, unbearable.
Finally, the footsteps faded.
Nina sank to the floor, her heartbeat loud enough to fill the room. The white rose still lay on the sill — a small, perfect thing that should have wilted by now.
It hadn’t.
Its petals were dry. Untouched by rain.
She realised then what terrified her most.
He didn’t just watch her.
He knew her world well enough to move through it unseen.