London at night had always been Alice’s refuge. The hush of empty streets, the distant hum of traffic, the glow of streetlights pooling in long shadows—it was a city that felt alive even in its stillness.
Tonight, though, the stillness felt different.
She had just finished a late shift at the café, exhaustion weighing her down. As she turned onto a narrow street, she saw him. A man in an old-fashioned suit, standing at the far end of the alley.
She kept walking. He did too.
Step for step.
The air sharpened. Alice quickened her pace. So did he. She turned onto her street, heart hammering, the feeling of unseen eyes pressing against her.
Her keys slipped in trembling fingers as she reached her door. She risked a glance over her shoulder. He was closer now, the details of his face lost to shadow.
The key found the lock. She twisted—
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Cold. Clammy.
Alice spun around, breath caught in her throat.
The street was empty.
But she could still feel it. The imprint of fingers, ice-cold against her skin.
That was the night everything changed.
She was never alone after that. Even in her flat, curtains drawn, doors locked, she could feel him. Some nights, she glimpsed a figure reflected in the window. Other nights, she woke to the whisper of movement in the dark.
Neighbours spoke in hushed voices about the man in the suit, always just beyond sight. An old resident, they said. Died alone. Unmourned.
Alice stopped walking at night.
But it didn’t matter.
Because now, even in the daylight, she could still feel his touch.
ns 15.158.61.16da2
