By morning, Aria hadn't slept.
Her curtains were drawn tight, yet she still felt exposed — as if the walls themselves were breathing, listening.
Every corner of her room felt wrong now. Her books, once neatly stacked, leaned unevenly. Her perfume bottle, moved again. And when she finally dared to check the front door that afternoon, her stomach dropped.
Three long scratches — deep, uneven, raw — streaked across the wood like claw marks.
She stumbled back, her pulse thundering. "No, no, no…"
Lena came over an hour later, after Aria's frantic call. She stared at the marks, frowning. "Maybe it's a stray cat or something. Or a bad prank."
Aria's laugh was hollow. "A prank? Who even does this?"
Lena sighed, glancing around the apartment. "Then go to the police, Aria. You can't stay here pretending everything's fine."
"I can't," Aria whispered. "What am I supposed to say? That my stalker leaves red feathers and knows my childhood nickname? That I dream about him before he appears?"
Lena's face softened. "You're scaring yourself. Maybe… maybe Kael's just obsessed, not supernatural."
But Aria shook her head. It wasn't just Kael anymore. Someone else was watching. Someone who knew when she opened her curtains, when she moved her books, when she cried.
That night, the air was still. Too still.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A message. Unknown number again.
> You shouldn't have doubted me.
Attached was a photo.
Aria's heart stopped.
It was her — standing by her bedroom window earlier that day.
The photo was taken from outside.