The rain had softened by the time she reached her building. It held in the air like a thought that refused to fall. The foyer smelled faintly of old stone and damp mail. She took the stairs, counting the turns, and let the quiet of the landing settle her pulse. Inside, she locked the door and stood for a moment with her palm flat against the wood. The city's noise travelled through the walls in a low ribbon, steady and distant.
She peeled away the night in small, clean movements. Shoes by the mat, dress unzipped and hung, hair combed through with patient strokes. She let the bathroom tap run until the water turned cold and held her wrists beneath it. The chill climbed her forearms and cleared her head. She dried her hands and watched the last drop travel to the edge of the basin and fall.
In the bedroom, a dry shirt waited on the chair. She pulled it on and crossed to the desk by the window. The glass revealed a pale outline layered over the city's late-night lights. She lifted her bag and emptied it with care. Lipstick. Keys. A folded napkin. The receipt folder. She smoothed the napkin along its crease and set it above the keyboard, as if saving a breath.
She wrote three lines on a card and pinned it to the corkboard.
Name: Aiden
Known: psychologist, precise, prefers silence and rain
Unknown: address, routine, soft points
She took a step back. The card steadied the room. It gave the night a shape she could hold.
Elira opened the laptop and began with what anyone could see. She typed his surname and refined the results by habit. She filtered for his practice and found a profile written in clean, exact language. The photo offered nothing new. The website was free of personal details. The contact page used a routing service. She noted the postal box and the narrow window of posted hours. She bookmarked the site and moved on.
A business listing for a consulting arm appeared beneath a security contract award from last year. She opened both. The listing matched the voice of the website and pointed to nowhere useful. The award carried a short quote from a director with a different name. She saved the press image anyway. In the reflection of a glass door, a figure crossed the lobby with a coat over one arm. The outline could have been anyone. She added it to a folder marked with the date of tonight.
A conference program surfaced in a separate search. His name sat on a panel about cognitive load in high risk work. No headshot. She saved the page and the contact for the organiser. Her fingers moved without hurry. She did not chase. She built lines that would hold when pulled.
The possessive edge returned when she remembered the phone. It slid in beneath the careful work and sat there. She turned her own phone face down and placed her palm over it. Warm glass. Her hand covered the screen until the feeling softened. If work followed him to dinner again, it would have to find its way past her.
Her phone lit again. Sienna called. Elira let it ring once more so her voice would land steady.
"Are you home?" Sienna asked. The line carried the soft echo of an empty office.
"Yes," Elira said. She let warmth into the word. "Just finished."
"I need to confirm the skincare campaign," Sienna said. "Verrin wants you at the studio on Thursday. Ten to two. The brief is minimal, clean light, no jewellery. The director is Miles Haart. You liked him last time."
"I did," Elira said. "Thursday is fine."
"You sound tired," Sienna said. "Do you want me to lighten this week?"
"I am fine," Elira said. She adjusted her tone by a shade. "Thursday will be good."
"There is also a reshoot for the streaming series key art. The photographer lost a card. Sunday afternoon is the only window. I can try to move it if you need the day."
Elira looked at the corkboard without moving her face. "Book it," she said. "Send me the call sheet tonight."
Sienna paused. "There is noise from the charity gala," she said. "A gossip account posted that you left early with someone. I have not responded. Is there anything I should know?"
Elira sat straighter and let a lighter tone into her voice, the one that sold interviews. "I left alone," she said. "I wanted a quiet night. Use that."
"All right," Sienna said. Paper moved on the other end of the line. "Two more things. A sponsor dinner next month, and a call from Ardent Films about a second reading."
"Send the dates," Elira said. "I will make the dinner possible. Tell Ardent I am interested."
"And if the dinner feels like too much, I can decline politely on your behalf," Sienna said. "You do not have to carry every room."
Sienna's voice softened a fraction. "Are you resting at all?"
"I am," Elira said.
"Have you eaten?" Sienna asked. "I can send something."
"I have food here," Elira said. She let a small smile shape the sound. "Thank you."
"All right," Sienna said. "Call me if you change your mind."
"Good night, Sienna," Elira said.
"Good night, darling," Sienna said. "I will email within the hour. And Elira, if you want me to kill the gala story at the source, I can."
"Not yet," Elira said. "Let it run quietly." She hesitated, then added more softly, "Call me if you need company. Work is work, but you matter more to me than any brief."
The call ended. Elira set the phone face down. She silenced notifications, then unsilenced one. A keyword alert on his surname, narrowed to the city.
Elira drew the route from the restaurant on a clean sheet. She marked the turns she had taken, the awnings she had used, the panes of glass that had given her his shape. She circled the point where the street thinned and the reflections broke. That was where she had lost him. She wrote a note in the margin. Likely car within two blocks. Check camera angles. Check shopfronts. Return tomorrow, same time. Observe for pattern.
The apartment's quiet deepened. She stood and let her eyes pass across the shelves. She cleared a space on the middle one and began to arrange a small order that felt like a promise. The card with his name. The printed map with a single circle. The folded napkin. A blank frame that would hold a photo when she chose it. She added a cup and saucer beside the frame, clean and white. A place kept.
She sat again and pulled a shallow drawer open. Inside, everything lay in neat rows. Spare keys. Batteries. A small torch. A pocket notebook. She lifted the notebook and wrote a line on the first clean page. He walks as if the city belongs to his body. She closed the book and returned it to its place.
The search continued without noise. She cross checked the business listing against public filings and found nothing that contradicted the surface. She followed a line from the security award to a subcontractor name she recognised. A dead end. She kept the name anyway. Even closed doors describe a house.
She let the laptop rest and crossed to the window. The city's lights looked steadier now that the rain had moved on. In the lane below, a delivery van idled with its hazards on while someone shifted crates. A woman in a red coat walked past holding her umbrella like a standard and vanished around the corner. The night felt busy and private. It pleased her.
She returned to the desk and set a timer for ten minutes. When it ended she would stop for the night. She wanted to honour the room she was building. Hunger could be a discipline if one chose the edges well.
A small image surfaced in another search. A candid from a charity event. Aiden stood half in shadow near the back of the room, his posture composed, his hair catching the light at the edge. The image was not clear. It was good enough. She printed it and trimmed the borders with a steel ruler, then set it in the blank frame on the shelf. The corner clicked into place. The shelf felt complete for now.
She checked the card again. Known. Unknown. She added one more line beneath the rest. He leaves without apology and returns without noise. She pressed the pen down, then lifted it. The ink settled.
The timer chimed. She closed the laptop and covered the camera with a small strip of paper. She rinsed the cup and saucer as if they had been used. She wiped the desk with a soft cloth. She turned off the lamp and let the room hold its order in the dim light from the street.
At the bedroom door she paused and looked back at the shelf. The card with his name. The map with its single circle. The napkin. The frame. The cup. She felt the balance of it like a wire pulled smooth and straight.
Tomorrow she would return to the place where the reflections broke. She would find the angle she had missed and follow the line to its end. The distance would be measured, and then it would be hers.