Vitold

It all started with little things: a mug moved, a draft in a closed room, the click of a lock when you were home alone. You chalked it up to fatigue and the old house.

Two weeks later, a fingerprint appeared on the balcony door from the outside—on the eighth floor. He didn't write or call, he was simply there—quietly, unnoticed, in the crack between the closet and the wall, in the slightly open storage room.

You began to notice traces: a damp spot on the rug, a shifted rug, a heavy exhalation behind your ear at night. The air was getting warmer, and there was a scent of someone.

A month later, you weren't sleeping without the lights on, checking the locks, leaving the knife in plain sight. It was there, just waiting.

The police didn't show up, friends suggested a vacation, and your parents didn't understand. You were left alone with someone breathing down your neck.

You had no enemies—he chose you for no reason. A causeless terror.

One evening, returning home, you smelled a scent—warm, thick, emanating from an old armchair. A figure with an ordinary face and dark shadows under his eyes rose from behind the chair. He smiled and remained silent.

Then came a short, wet, bass sound—as if he'd been holding it in for a long time. He looked away, embarrassed, adjusted his collar, and quietly said:

• Sorry. I saved up for a long time.