Claire stared at the message on her phone long after the screen dimmed. The words burned in her mind, searing each syllable into her skin.
She told herself it was a prank. A wrong number. Some cruel joke. But deep down she knew better. The notes. The drawer. The fire she never spoke of.
Someone knew.
The next morning, she forced herself into her routine. Shower. Tea. Coat zipped high against the wind. She walked quickly, eyes low, shoulders tight, every step heavy with the weight of dread.
At the office lobby, a man held the door for her. She nodded her thanks without meeting his eyes, slipping past. He smelled faintly of smoke.
She froze mid-step, the scent pulling her backward into memory — wood snapping, flames crackling, her brother's voice swallowed by fire. Her vision swam.
"Are you alright?" the man asked. His voice was deep, smooth, unfamiliar.
She blinked, forcing herself to breathe. He was tall, clean-shaven, dressed in a dark coat. Ordinary enough. But his eyes lingered too long, studying her as though he already knew her answer.
"I—" The word caught in her throat. She shook her head instead, brushing past him, desperate for distance.
All morning, she felt his presence. She caught glimpses of him — at the vending machine, in the corridor, outside by the smoking area though he never smoked. Always just near enough to notice, never close enough to confront.
By lunch, her nerves were frayed. She slipped outside to her usual stairwell, clutching her sandwich like it might anchor her. The cold concrete pressed against her back, grounding her in its chill.
Footsteps echoed above. Slow. Deliberate.
She stiffened.
The man appeared at the top of the stairwell, silhouetted against the weak daylight. He paused, as though deciding whether to descend.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He came down one step. Then another.
Claire bolted, sandwich forgotten, shoving past him before he reached the bottom. She heard him call out — her name, she swore he said her name — but the sound blurred as she ran, heart hammering in her chest.
That evening, back in her apartment, she collapsed against the door, shaking. She tried to convince herself she'd imagined it. That the man was harmless, just another worker, just coincidence.
But when she walked into the kitchen, her blood ran cold.
On the counter, where she had left her untouched mug of tea that morning, sat another folded note.
She opened it with trembling hands.
"You should have saved him"