Liora's POV
I left the envelope on the table and tried to breathe. My chest felt tight, like I was holding something heavy inside that refused to settle. But sitting in my apartment didn't help.
So I forced myself to move.
I grabbed my coat, bag, and recorder, even though I had no interviews scheduled today. I needed to get out. I needed noise and people and something normal to hold on to. My hands shook while I locked the door, and for a moment I pressed my palm against the wood, grounding myself.
The hallway was quiet. Too quiet for a building with thin walls and loud neighbors. I heard the buzz of a television behind one door, water running behind another, but nothing else. No footsteps. No doors opening or closing. It felt staged, like the whole floor was holding its breath.
I walked toward the elevator, but I stopped when I saw the door across from mine.
Caleb's apartment.
The new tenant who moved in two months ago. We'd talked twice. Once about the broken laundry machines and once about the weird hum the pipes made at night. His door was always locked. Always neat and closed.
Today it sat slightly open with a thin gap. Just enough to see the darkness inside. My pulse stuttered. I told myself he probably forgot to close it all the way. But Caleb doesn't forget. He triple-check his locks. I've watched him do it.
I stepped closer.
"Caleb?" My voice barely carried across the hallway. He didn't answer.
I nudged the door with my foot. It swung open with a long, soft creak. The sound ran straight through me.
The place looked wrong the moment I stepped inside.
The living room was a mess. Cushions on the floor, and a lamp knocked over. Papers were scattered like someone ran through the space with frantic hands. His coffee table had a long scratch across the top. A cup lay shattered beside the sofa.
My throat tightened.
This wasn't an accident.
I took one step deeper. Then another. The carpet crunched under my shoes where the cup had broken. The air felt thick with someone else's presence.
"Caleb?" I whispered again. "Are you here?"
Still nothing.
The bedroom door stood half open. I couldn't see inside from where I stood. I should've called someone. Maybe the building security or the police. Anyone. But my mind felt split. One half wanted to run, and the other half needed to know what happened.
So I walked toward the bedroom.
The door creaked louder when I pushed it. The room inside was worse. Clothes everywhere and drawers pulled out and dumped. His mattress flipped. A picture frame lay face-down on the floor. I turned it over carefully. It was a photo of him and his sister. Both smiling.
The glass was cracked straight through his face. My stomach dropped.
I heard a soft sound behind me and spun around so fast. I almost fell. A shadow shifted at the end of the hall. My heart jumped into my throat, but when I blinked, the shadow was gone. I stood still, listening.
But there was silence.
I stayed a moment longer, then backed out of the apartment. I didn't look away from the dark hallway until I was outside his door. I pulled it shut gently. My fingers trembled as I touched the knob. It didn't feel cold, exactly, but there was something off about the metal.
Like someone had touched it not long ago.
I hurried to the elevator and rode down to the lobby. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The lobby was brighter than the hallway upstairs, but the light felt harsh. The security guard sat behind the desk, half watching something on his phone.
He looked up when he saw my face.
"You alright?"
I opened my mouth, but the words stuck. I didn't want him walking into Caleb's place alone. I didn't want him touching anything. I didn't want to make this a scene until I understood even a fraction of what was happening.
So I swallowed and said, "Fine. Just a long morning."
He shrugged and went back to his phone.
I walked out the front door and into the cold air. The city noise hit me like a wave. Cars rushed past. People wove between each other. Someone laughed too loudly near a bus stop. It should have felt overwhelming, but it steadied me.
I breathed slower.
I walked toward the station. My head kept replaying the same things. The scratches near my lock, Caleb's door, the wrecked apartment, and the cracked photo.
Something was happening around me. Not to the building. Not to my floor in general, but to me.
The street crossing light turned green. I moved with the crowd, letting the flow of people pull me forward. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked it, hoping for a message, a call, or something grounding.
Unknown number, it read.
I locked the screen without answering.
The closer I got to work, the more my nerves settled into a dull, heavy ache. The newsroom sat in an old brick building squeezed between a coffee shop and a bookstore. I climbed the steps two at a time and pushed through the front doors.
The smell of ink and stale coffee hit immediately. A phone rang and keyboards clattered. Some of the people moved in sharp lines, always late for something. Others rushed toward the next headline.
This place usually calmed me. But today it didn't.
My editor spotted me. "Hayes, if you're here, good. We need a rewrite on the transport piece. The deadline's tight. You got it?"
I nodded. My voice felt thin. "Yeah. I'll take it."
I headed to my desk, dropped my bag, and turned on my computer. The screen glowed blue. I stared at it, but the words wouldn't come. The noise around me felt muffled, like I was underwater.
I rubbed my temples and tried to focus. Work usually helped. Breaking things into facts, asking questions, and following a line until it led somewhere kept me busy. I typed a few sentences about the transport strike, but they felt hollow and forced.
I kept thinking about Caleb's apartment.
I kept thinking about my door.
I kept thinking about the year missing from my life, the year someone claimed they owned.
The office hummed with normal life. My heartbeat didn't match any of it.
The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have. I checked the time. Two hours had passed, and I'd written barely a paragraph. My editor would kill me if I kept this pace, but I didn't force myself to care.
Something was wrong. And pretending my life was the same as yesterday wouldn't protect me.
I stood up and left my desk. I told the intern I was stepping out and headed for the stairs. My mind raced with questions I didn't want to voice.
Who was in my apartment?
What were they looking for?
Why Caleb?
Why now?
The stairwell was quiet as I walked down. My footsteps echoed. When I reached the first-floor landing, I felt the shift before I heard anything.
A prickling at the back of my neck. The sense of being watched. I stopped and slowly turned my head.
Someone stood at the bottom of the stairs.
A man in a dark coat. His face angled just enough that I couldn't see it. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just stood there, like he was waiting for me to notice him.
My breath stalled in my chest. I took one step back. He still didn't move. I took another step.
Still nothing.
The air felt colder.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I gripped the railing because my hand needed something solid.
Then the man lifted his head slightly. Just enough for me to feel the weight of his attention. Not curiosity or confusion.
But recognition.
My pulse spiked.
I turned and bolted up the stairs, two at a time, until I reached the newsroom door. I slipped inside, let it swing shut behind me, and pressed my back to it.
My coworkers didn't even look up. A coffee machine hissed. Everything inside the office still seemed normal, normal, normal.
I stood there, breathing hard.
I forced myself to check the stairwell through the small glass pane in the door.
The man was gone.
A tremor ran through me, sharp and unwelcome.
I walked back to my desk slowly. My hands felt numb. My mind wouldn't settle. The envelope, Caleb's apartment, and now the stranger watching me in the stairwell. I told myself this wasn't random.
This was connected.
I sank into my chair and stared at the blank document on my screen. My reflection stared back at me with wide eyes and a stiff jaw.
Someone knew about the missing year and what was taken from me. Someone knew more than I did and was hunting me. These thoughts tightened in my chest.
I needed answers.
Real ones. Not guesses or fear. Answers from whoever started this.
My hand drifted toward my phone. If I wanted the truth, I knew where I had to look next.