CHAPTER THREE

I jolted awake, a shudder ripping through me before I could fully process why.

The room was dark, but something felt… off. My breath came in uneven gasps as I scanned my surroundings, my mind still groggy with sleep. The bed beneath me was slightly rumpled, the blankets twisted from restless tossing. But that wasn’t what sent ice trickling down my spine.

The silence.

It was too still.

I turned my head toward the spot where he had been slumped against the wall. Empty.

My pulse kicked up. I scrambled upright, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor as I stumbled toward the window. It was slightly ajar, the cracked pane allowing a thin breeze to snake through. I pressed my fingertips to the glass. Still cool.

He was gone.

A part of me had expected this, but now that it was real, I felt an odd mix of relief and unease. He had been injured—badly. And yet, he had vanished into the night like a phantom, leaving nothing behind except a smear of dried blood on the floorboards.

I swallowed hard, my fingers curling against my arms as I hugged myself. The room felt different now, as if his presence had shifted something I couldn’t quite name.

I should be glad.

I should be grateful he was gone, that I wasn’t waking up to danger looming over me. But instead, all I could do was stand there, staring at the open window, haunted by the feeling that this wasn’t the end.

That somehow, despite every ounce of logic screaming otherwise—

I hadn’t seen the last of him.

I forced myself to move, shaking off the lingering dread clinging to my skin. My body ached, exhaustion still weighing me down, but I needed a shower.

The bathroom was small, just a narrow space with a sink, a toilet, and an old clawfoot tub with a showerhead mounted above it. I twisted the faucet, waiting as the pipes groaned before releasing a steady stream of hot water. Steam curled around me as I peeled off my clothes, shivering despite the warmth.

Stepping under the spray, I let the water cascade over me, washing away the tension knotting my muscles. The heat seeped into my skin, loosening the stiffness in my shoulders. I pressed my palms against the cool tiles, exhaling slowly.

Last night replayed in my mind—the way he had appeared out of nowhere, bleeding and barely conscious. The way I had helped him, despite every ounce of common sense telling me not to.

I ran a hand down my face. What was I thinking?

He could’ve killed me.

And yet, I hadn’t felt fear—not exactly. Wariness, yes. Uncertainty. But there had been something else too, something unsettling.

I shut off the water and reached for a towel, wrapping it tightly around myself. The mirror was fogged over, my reflection a hazy blur. Wiping my hand across the glass, I met my own eyes.

Tired. Unsteady. A little lost.

I turned away and got dressed, pulling on fresh clothes before stepping back into the bedroom. The open window drew my attention again, a sharp reminder of last night’s chaos.

I needed to get it fixed.

Grabbing my phone, I searched for a repair service, my fingers unsteady as I dialed the number. The call rang twice before a gruff voice answered.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, I need someone to repair a broken window. It’s urgent.”

“Address?”

I rattled it off, chewing the inside of my cheek.

“Someone will be there in an hour.”

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone, exhaling.

An hour. That was enough time to push last night aside, to pretend this was just a normal morning.

But deep down, I knew—

Nothing about this was normal anymore.

I dragged a hand through my damp hair, shaking off the last remnants of unease. The clock on the nightstand read 7:42 AM—too early to dwell on the what-ifs circling in my head. I needed something normal, something routine.

Breakfast.

Padding over to the tiny kitchenette in the corner of the room, I opened the mini fridge, scanning its limited contents. A carton of eggs, half a loaf of bread, a stick of butter, and some orange juice. Simple, but it would do.

I set a pan on the stovetop, letting the butter melt as I cracked two eggs into it. The quiet sizzle filled the space, a comforting sound against the weight of last night. Toast went into the small pop-up toaster, and as I stood there, flipping the eggs, I focused on the rhythmic motions—the scrape of the spatula, the soft pop of the toast, the citrusy scent of fresh orange juice filling the air.

For a few minutes, it felt normal.

I sat at the small wooden table by the window, cutting into my eggs, chewing slowly as I tried to convince myself that today would be just another day. No strange men bleeding out in my room. No lingering paranoia. Just me, my breakfast, and the sound of the city waking up beyond the glass.

Then—

A sharp knock at the door.

I set my fork down, swallowing the bite I’d just taken. The repairman. Right on time.

Rising from my seat, I wiped my hands on a napkin and made my way to the door. Through the peephole, I saw a man in his late fifties, dressed in a navy-blue work jacket with a toolbox in one hand. His expression was neutral, bored even, like this was just another job on his list.

I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“You called for a window repair?” His voice was gruff, businesslike.

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s in the bedroom. This way.”

He followed me inside, his boots thudding against the wooden floor as I led him to the damaged window.

He let out a low whistle. “That’s a nasty break. What happened?”

I hesitated. “Someone threw something at it.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the full truth either.

He didn’t press. Instead, he knelt down, inspecting the cracks along the pane. “Glass is loose. You’re lucky it didn’t shatter completely. I’ll have to replace the whole thing.”

“How long will it take?”

“Shouldn’t be more than an hour.” He set his toolbox down with a heavy clunk. “I’ll get started.”

I nodded and stepped back, watching as he began removing the broken glass with practiced efficiency.

As the repairman worked, the rhythmic sound of tools scraping against the window frame filled the room, but my attention kept drifting elsewhere. My gaze lingered on the space near the wall—the very spot where he had sat, his body heavy with exhaustion, his dark eyes watching me with an unreadable expression.

The bed was neatly made, the blankets undisturbed, yet I could still picture him there. The faint imprint of his presence lingered in the air like a ghost of the night before, refusing to fade with the morning light.

It was unsettling how quickly reality had shifted. Hours ago, he had been here—breathing, bleeding, alive. Now, there was nothing but silence, as if he had never existed at all.

And yet, I could still feel him.

A whisper of warmth where he had been. A phantom weight in the space he had occupied.

His presence.

The repairman straightened with a satisfied nod, wiping his hands on a rag. “That should hold up just fine,” he said, stepping back to inspect his work. “Replaced the glass, reinforced the frame. If you ever need more repairs, just give me a call.”

I forced a small smile, reaching for my purse. “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

He rattled off the price, and I handed him the cash, my fingers slightly unsteady. As he counted the bills, I caught myself glancing at the newly fixed window. The jagged edges of broken glass were gone, but I could still picture the way they had gleamed under the moonlight when I first saw the damage.

The repairman tucked the money into his pocket and gathered his tools. “You take care now, miss.”

I nodded. “You too.”

With that, he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Alone again, I exhaled slowly, rubbing my arms as I turned back to the empty space in the room. The logical part of me knew that the stranger from last night was long gone.

And yet… I still couldn’t shake the feeling that some part of him had never left.

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