#####CHAPTER 3: ELENA

‎Sometimes peace feels borrowed, like a fragile thing that never really belongs to you.

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‎That was how my life felt lately — borrowed time, borrowed quiet. Mornings began the same: the kettle whistling, the soft hum of music from the radio, the city breathing just beyond my window. Moscow was waking up around me, all noise and motion, but my apartment stayed still. Safe. Contained.

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‎At least, it used to feel that way.

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‎Lately, the stillness had begun to feel heavier — like something was hiding in it.

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‎I tried not to think too much about it. I kept myself busy — long shifts at the flower shop, coffee dates with Mila when she wasn’t drowning in work, evenings spent sketching or reading by the window. Anything to keep my mind from wandering.

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‎But it always did.

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‎It wandered back to the dreams.

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‎They started a few weeks ago — faint at first, fleeting images that vanished the moment I woke. A man’s voice. The smell of rain. The flash of a lighter in the dark.

‎Sometimes I’d wake up breathless, heart pounding, the name “Adrian” on my lips — though I didn’t know anyone by that name.

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‎I’d laugh it off in the mornings, tell myself I was being dramatic, a victim of too many late-night thrillers and too little sleep. But the feeling didn’t fade.

‎It followed me into the daylight.

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‎There were moments when I’d be walking home and feel it — that strange, electric awareness, the sense that someone’s eyes were on me. I’d turn, look down the street, and find no one there. Just the city, breathing, watching, alive.

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‎Still, the feeling clung to me like static.

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‎“Maybe you just need a break,” Mila said one afternoon as we closed up the shop. She was all smiles and bright lipstick, the kind of woman the world noticed. “You’ve been working too much again.”

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‎“I’m fine,” I lied, sweeping fallen petals into a basket.

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‎“Lena,” she sighed, leaning against the counter, “you always say that right before you crash.”

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‎I smiled faintly, but she wasn’t wrong. I’d been restless — tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix. There was a weight pressing against me, invisible but constant, like waiting for something I couldn’t name.

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‎That night, I walked home alone. The rain had started again, thin and silver, whispering against the streets. I pulled my coat tighter, crossing near the café I loved — the same one I went to when I needed to feel normal.

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‎The glass windows glowed with soft light. I could see people laughing inside, warmth spilling onto the wet pavement. For a moment, I almost went in. But something — a flicker in the corner of my eye — made me stop.

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‎A black car was parked across the street. Nothing unusual in Moscow, but the way it idled there, engine low, lights dimmed — it made the back of my neck prickle.

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‎I looked at it for a moment too long. Then I laughed at myself. You’re imagining things again, Elena.

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‎I turned away, walked faster.

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‎By the time I reached my building, the car was gone.

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‎Still, I double-checked the locks that night — once, twice, three times — before I went to bed.

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‎

‎---

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‎The dream came again.

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‎The same rain, the same dim light. I was standing somewhere unfamiliar — a street, maybe, or an alley — and there was a man. Tall, broad shoulders, cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. I couldn’t see his face, only his eyes — pale and cold, yet somehow aching.

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‎He said my name.

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‎“Elena.”

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‎Just that. But it was enough to send a tremor through me.

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‎I woke gasping, hand pressed to my heart, the sound of rain still echoing in my head. The clock read 3:27 a.m. The apartment was silent. Too silent.

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‎I pushed off the blanket and stood, bare feet against the cold floor. For a moment, I thought I heard something — a soft scrape, like shoes against pavement, coming from outside.

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‎I went to the window, pulling the curtain back just a little. The street was empty. The rain had stopped. A streetlight flickered across from my building, throwing shadows against the wall.

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‎Everything looked normal. But it didn’t feel normal.

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‎I closed the curtain and backed away, the image of that man’s eyes burning in my mind.

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‎It was ridiculous — I didn’t believe in omens or fate. I believed in survival. And surviving meant not letting ghosts, dreams, or paranoia get to you.

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‎So, I made tea. I sat by the window. I told myself it was nothing.

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‎But deep down, something in me whispered that it wasn’t.

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‎

‎---

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‎The next morning, the city was bright and cruelly ordinary. I forced myself through the routine — coffee, bus, work, small talk. But beneath it all, a current ran, faint and restless.

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‎Around noon, a delivery came for the shop — a large black box with no sender listed. Mila squealed, assuming it was a new supply order. She sliced the ribbon and froze.

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‎Inside was a single red rose.

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‎No note. No card.

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‎“Wow,” she laughed, forcing the tension out of her voice. “Secret admirer?”

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‎“Not funny,” I murmured, but my throat had gone dry.

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‎The rose wasn’t from any supplier we worked with — it was too perfect, its petals deep crimson, edges smooth and flawless. When I touched it, a small drop of water rolled down its stem. Not water — dew. Fresh.

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‎As if someone had placed it there moments ago.

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‎Mila shrugged, unbothered. “Maybe someone’s trying to flirt. You should take it home.”

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‎But I didn’t. I left it in the back room, sitting on a shelf where I wouldn’t have to look at it.

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‎Still, when I locked up that evening, I swore I could smell its scent in the air — faint, sweet, and wrong.

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‎

‎---

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‎The dreams got worse after that.

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‎Each night, I saw him more clearly — the man in the rain. His voice was low, steady, almost tender. But there was something else there too. Pain. Possession. Regret.

‎Sometimes, I thought I could feel his hand brush my skin — a touch that wasn’t real but made my heart race anyway.

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‎“Elena,” he’d whisper, and I’d wake up trembling, my pulse in my throat.

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‎I tried to talk to Mila about it once, but she laughed it off, said I was stressed. Maybe I was. Maybe I’d finally cracked from holding too much silence for too long.

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‎But then, one evening, as I was leaving work, I saw him.

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‎Not the man from my dreams — but someone watching me.

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‎He stood by the corner, half-hidden in shadow, pretending to smoke. When I looked his way, he turned. Too fast.

‎I caught only a glimpse — sharp eyes, a scar near his jaw — and then he was gone.

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‎For a long moment, I just stood there, breath caught in my chest.

‎Then I ran.

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‎By the time I reached my building, the street behind me was empty again.

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‎I wanted to call someone — the police, maybe — but what would I even say? “I saw a man who looked at me wrong”? They’d laugh. I’d laugh too, if it didn’t feel so real.

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‎That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept the light on, book open but unread, tea cold beside me. The city was quiet outside — unnaturally so.

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‎And then, just before dawn, I felt it again.

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‎That same awareness. That same weight in the air.

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‎I walked to the window. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I pulled the curtain aside.

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‎Across the street, a car was parked beneath the lamplight. Black. Still. Waiting.

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‎My chest tightened.

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‎I couldn’t see who was inside — the glass was tinted, the rain streaking down its surface. But I felt it, stronger than before — the connection, the pull, the fear tangled with something I didn’t want to name.

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‎I stayed there for a long time, staring at that car, half hoping whoever was inside would step out, half praying they wouldn’t.

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‎But they didn’t move. Neither did I.

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‎Eventually, exhaustion won. I curled up on the couch, the city still watching me through the window.

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‎When morning came, the car was gone.

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‎

‎---

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‎Later that day, I found the rose again. The same one from the shop. I’d left it behind, but somehow it sat waiting by my apartment door, fresh and bright as if it had never wilted.

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‎A single drop of rain clung to one petal.

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‎For a long time, I just stood there, staring at it. Then I picked it up, held it to my chest, and whispered to no one:

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‎“Who are you?”

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‎The silence didn’t answer.

‎But somewhere, deep down, I felt it — the quiet certainty that someone already knew the question.

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‎And that he was closer than I thought.