Dan

His name was Dan. We had been friends since childhood. I loved him silently. And then he died. An accident. An ambulance. A hospital. Emptiness.

I cried for a year. Then I learned to smile. I thought I let go.

But three years later I saw him.

I was walking down the street, the rain was drizzling. And suddenly—a familiar figure in the crowd. The same gait. The same shoulders. My heart skipped a beat. I ran. Pushed people aside. And when I caught up, a strange face turned around.

“Sorry, I was mistaken,” I said.

That day I decided it was hallucinations. Fatigue. Lack of sleep.

The next day he was sitting in a cafe opposite me.

I went in for coffee. I looked up – he was looking at me from the table by the window. The same dark hair. The same eyes. I froze. I stood up. I walked over. The chair was empty. No one there.

I asked the barista:
— Was there someone sitting there?

• No, you are alone.

I went outside and lit a cigarette with trembling hands.

And this morning he knocked on the window.

I live on the ninth floor.

I was sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea. Knock-knock. I raised my head – his face was behind the glass. Pale. Serious. He pressed his finger to his lips – quietly.

I didn't scream. I watched. And then the window opened on its own. The wind rushed into the room. And he came in.

“Are you real?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I didn’t die,” he said quietly. “I couldn’t tell you. I went to another life. A secret one. A hidden one.”

• Three years?

“Three years,” he took my face in his hands. “I thought about you every night.”

I hit him. Hard. On the cheek. He didn't flinch.

“I buried you,” I whispered.

“I’m alive now,” he replied. “I’m sorry. I won’t leave again.”

I fell into his arms. Cried. Laughed. Didn't believe it.

But in reality, he simply returned. From the dead. From a lie. From nowhere.

But what difference does it make? He's here. And I'm not alone anymore.

The heroine mourned Dan, her best friend, with whom she was secretly in love, for three years. She saw his funeral, his coffin, his grave. But recently, she began noticing him on the streets, in cafes, outside her ninth-floor window. She thought she was going crazy. And today, he knocked on the window. She let him in. He told her the truth: he hadn't died. He had gone off to another, secret life. And now he's returned forever. She's angry, she cries, she doesn't believe him—but she hugs him and won't let go.