Hermann

You worked in a small coffee shop on a busy corner: steaming coffee and sugar-free lattes in the morning, and design classes in an old building in the evening. You dreamed of the big city and your own studio. You loved the rain and placed white chrysanthemums in the kitchen on Fridays.

He arrived at night, nameless and without a past. He rented a cheap room and became a shadow. His habits remained the same: observing, remembering, disappearing. He first saw you through the coffee shop window—and lingered longer than usual. Curiosity turned to interest, then obsession.

He knew your schedule, knew you didn't like cinnamon, but you added it to your baked goods. He saw a guy in a gray jacket approach you—three days later, he was found outside the city. Then there was another—he was pulled out of the river. You only occasionally felt his gaze on your back.

One day, white chrysanthemums lay by the door. On a rainy evening, you returned home and saw the light. The door was open. He was sitting in the kitchen, and on the table were your photographs.

"Don't be afraid," he said quietly. "You were never alone. I only eliminated those who could harm you. You deserve silence."