The paper felt heavier than it should, as if the single word scrawled across it carried a weight her hands could barely hold.
Remember.
Her throat tightened. She shoved the note back into the drawer, slamming it shut, the sound echoing far too loudly in the small office.
No one looked up. Not a single person turned their head.
It was almost worse, that indifference.
Claire sat down, her pulse racing. She forced her breathing into slow, measured counts, the way the therapist years ago had taught her. Four in. Hold. Four out. Hold. Her fingers trembled against the keyboard, keys clacking in nervous rhythm, though she couldn't remember what she was typing.
Who would leave it?
Her mind clawed at possibilities. Maybe it was nothing — a prank, a mistake, a scrap from someone else's notes. But the letters had been jagged, insistent, as if carved with intent. Not casual. Not random.
And the word itself. Of all words.
Remember.
Her stomach twisted.
By the time the office clock crept toward five, she couldn't bear the fluorescent buzz any longer. She gathered her things quickly, clutching her bag against her chest as though it could shield her, and fled into the evening.
The sky was already dim, clouds pressing low, threatening rain. She kept her head down as she walked, the crowd brushing past her, strangers bumping her shoulder, muttering apologies she barely heard. Every face felt sharper, eyes lingering a fraction too long.
She checked over her shoulder more than once.
At her apartment door, she paused, the keys trembling in her hand. She scanned the hallway. Empty. Quiet. Still, her skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms rising as though unseen eyes lingered just out of sight.
She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it again. Twice. Three times.
Inside, the silence swallowed her whole.
She leaned against the door, her bag sliding to the floor. The apartment felt different — wrong somehow, though she couldn't put her finger on why. The air was too still.
She set her things down and moved through the rooms carefully, checking each corner as though someone might be waiting. The bedroom. The kitchen. The bathroom. Empty. Always empty.
But her desk drawer — the small one by the window where she kept stray papers — was ajar.
Her heart plummeted.
She knew she hadn't touched it that morning. She was meticulous about these things, careful in ways others might call obsessive. Drawers closed, objects aligned, doors locked. She didn't leave things ajar. Ever.
Her breath came faster as she pulled it open.
Inside lay another slip of paper, folded the same way.
She froze, the weight of dread settling heavy in her chest. Her fingers twitched, reluctant to touch it, but she forced them to obey. She unfolded it slowly.
Two words this time.
"He knows."
The paper felt heavier than it should, as if the single word scrawled across it carried a weight her hands could barely hold.
Remember.
Her throat tightened. She shoved the note back into the drawer, slamming it shut, the sound echoing far too loudly in the small office.
No one looked up. Not a single person turned their head.
It was almost worse, that indifference.
Claire sat down, her pulse racing. She forced her breathing into slow, measured counts, the way the therapist years ago had taught her. Four in. Hold. Four out. Hold. Her fingers trembled against the keyboard, keys clacking in nervous rhythm, though she couldn't remember what she was typing.
Who would leave it?
Her mind clawed at possibilities. Maybe it was nothing — a prank, a mistake, a scrap from someone else's notes. But the letters had been jagged, insistent, as if carved with intent. Not casual. Not random.
And the word itself. Of all words.
Remember.
Her stomach twisted.
By the time the office clock crept toward five, she couldn't bear the fluorescent buzz any longer. She gathered her things quickly, clutching her bag against her chest as though it could shield her, and fled into the evening.
The sky was already dim, clouds pressing low, threatening rain. She kept her head down as she walked, the crowd brushing past her, strangers bumping her shoulder, muttering apologies she barely heard. Every face felt sharper, eyes lingering a fraction too long.
She checked over her shoulder more than once.
At her apartment door, she paused, the keys trembling in her hand. She scanned the hallway. Empty. Quiet. Still, her skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms rising as though unseen eyes lingered just out of sight.
She unlocked the door, stepped inside, and locked it again. Twice. Three times.
Inside, the silence swallowed her whole.
She leaned against the door, her bag sliding to the floor. The apartment felt different — wrong somehow, though she couldn't put her finger on why. The air was too still.
She set her things down and moved through the rooms carefully, checking each corner as though someone might be waiting. The bedroom. The kitchen. The bathroom. Empty. Always empty.
But her desk drawer — the small one by the window where she kept stray papers — was ajar.
Her heart plummeted.
She knew she hadn't touched it that morning. She was meticulous about these things, careful in ways others might call obsessive. Drawers closed, objects aligned, doors locked. She didn't leave things ajar. Ever.
Her breath came faster as she pulled it open.
Inside lay another slip of paper, folded the same way.
She froze, the weight of dread settling heavy in her chest. Her fingers twitched, reluctant to touch it, but she forced them to obey. She unfolded it slowly.
Two words this time.
"He knows."