Three evenings later, I found myself standing in the same shadow, across the same boulevard, watching the same glass tower.

  My palms were damp inside my coat pockets. My heart hammered against my ribs with the same frantic rhythm that had sent me fleeing before. But my feet stayed planted. My gaze stayed fixed on those rotating doors.

  I had spent the intervening days in a state of restless agitation, unable to eat, unable to sleep, unable to think of anything except the sound of his voice and the resignation in his eyes. I had replayed that moment a thousand times, analysing every detail, searching for some clue I had missed. And each time, I arrived at the same conclusion:

  He had known I was there. Not sensed—known. As if he had been waiting for me. As if my presence was not a surprise but a confirmation.

  I needed to understand what that meant.

  The doors rotated. My breath caught.

  He emerged at the same time, wearing the same dark coat, his hair brushed back from his forehead in the same neat style. He paused for just a moment on the sidewalk, his gaze sweeping the boulevard with an attentiveness that made my stomach clench. For one terrifying second, I thought he might look directly at me, might cross the street and end this game before it could begin.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  But then he turned, as he had before, toward the park.

  I waited until he had disappeared among the trees before I moved. This time, I did not cross the street in a panicked dash. This time, I walked—slowly, deliberately, my shoes softly patting against the pavement in a measured rhythm. This time, I was not running away.

  I was following.

  The park was darker than before, the twilight deeper, the skeletal branches of the trees black against a sky that had shifted from purple to a deep blue. The path unwound before me, and I followed it with the same careful distance I had maintained before, using the shadows as my cloak, my heart a steady drum instead of a frantic one.

  I found him at the same spot, the railing.

  He stood exactly where he had stood before, his arms resting on the cold metal, his gaze fixed on the dark water and the shimmering reflection of the city beyond. He was utterly still—a statue, just as I had thought—but this time, I knew he was waiting.

  I stopped maybe fifty feet behind him, hidden by the same oak tree, its branches still skeletal against the darkening sky. I watched him for a long moment, letting myself feel the weight of it—the centuries, the lives, the impossible, undeniable pull that had brought me here again.

  Then I stepped out from behind the oak.

  The distance between us was maybe fifty feet, but it felt like crossing an ocean. Each step I took was a lifetime. Each breath a century.

  He didn't turn immediately. He stood at the railing, arms resting on the cold metal, gaze fixed on the dark water. The city lights painted him in silhouette—the broad shoulders, the proud set of his head, the way his hair caught the amber glow from the lamppost. He looked like a statue. A monument to something forgotten.

  I stopped ten feet behind him. Close enough to see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands gripped the railing just a little too tight.

  leaving a rating or comments would be greatly appreciated—it really helps new writers like me.

  (Leans in, whispering)