When the voice you fear most begins to sound like comfort.
The rain had stopped, but its memory lingered. In the dripping gutters, the glisten of the street below, and in Ava's chest, it lived. Heavy, damp, and restless. She hadn't moved in minutes. The coffee cup still steamed faintly on the table; the proof that whoever had left it hadn't been gone for long.
Her mind raced. The café, the note and the man by the window. E. No amount of re-visitation of memory brought her any answers. She needed to find out what this creepy game is about.
Ava walked to the window, her heart hammering in her chest. The streetlight flickered once, twice, then held steady. No one was there now; no black umbrella or watching eyes. Only the faint hum of the night pressing close against the glass.
With trembling hands, she locked the window and drew the curtains tight. It's fine, she told herself as she tried to catch her breath. "It's just a coincidence or some stupid prank; Maybe the waitress." She thought for a moment. "…no, she couldn't have known her favorite order."
Ava paced the room, checking the door twice, then a third time. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, each second scraping at her nerves. 11:37 p.m. She sank onto the couch while she tried to calm the rapid thud of her pulse. Sleep would be impossible at this time in time.
Just then, her phone suddenly buzzed on the coffee table which nearly made her scream. Her hand hesitated before she picked it up. No caller ID, just an unknown number flashing against the dark screen.
Her throat instinctively went dry. She almost let it ring out; almost, until something inside her clicked. Maybe it was curiosity or fear disguised as courage. She answered. "Hello?"
Silence hit her like cold water. She was about withdrawing the phone from her ears when a faint sound came through. Not static, not breathing but rain. As if someone was standing outside in the storm.
Ava's chest tightened. "Who is this?" She mustered the courage to voice it out.
"You left in a hurry" a low, measured voice answered. It was calm enough to make her skin prickle. Her grip spontaneously tightened on the phone. "Who is this?"
"You didn't even finish your coffee."
Her stomach dropped. That voice — smooth as silk, with a quiet confidence that wrapped around her name even though he hadn't said it yet. She knew it before he spoke again. "Ava."
Her name sounded different in his mouth. Darker; as if he'd known it for years.
"How do you…" she began, but he cut in softly.
"You shouldn't walk home alone at night." She froze, the chill in his tone threaded through her veins.
"Where are you?" she demanded.
A pause, then, almost tenderly he mumbled: "Close enough to see you're safe."
Ava's gaze snapped to the window. The air in the room had shifted, heavier, as if the sound of his voice had shape. The curtains were still drawn, but she could feel the weight of eyes beyond them. Watching and waiting. "I don't know who you think you are," she said with shaky voice, "but if you keep following me, I'll call the police."
The sound that came through wasn't laughter exactly but more of a low, breathy hum. "You won't and You don't really want to." He spoke but something in his voice wasn't threatening — it was intimate, almost affectionate. And that scared her more than anger ever could.
"You are a stalker, right...Don't call this number again," she said, forcing her voice steady. "Don't come near me."
"Ava," he whispered, and she could almost hear the smile. "You saw me before you were meant to. That's all."
"What does that mean?" she snapped.
"It means…" His voice lowered, softer now, like a secret. "Some connections aren't accidental. You'll understand soon." Then the line went dead. Ava's hand shook as she lowered the phone.
Her apartment suddenly felt smaller, the walls pressing in. She moved through each room, checking locks, searching shadows, half expecting him to be there — behind a door, a mirror, or her reflection but found nothing.
She ended up by the window again. The street below gleamed under the lamplight, wet and silent. And then, there it was. A shadow moved and there stood a figure across the street with his head tilted toward her window. And an umbrella in hand.
Her breath caught. But before she could look closer, a car passed and when the light cleared, he was gone. Only the faint shimmer of rain remained. Ava stood there for a long moment, her pulse refusing to slow.
On her phone screen, a new text appeared. It was an unknown Number:
"Sleep, Ava. You'll need your strength for tomorrow."
.
.
.
Morning came late for Ava Morgan. She barely remembered falling asleep — just the faint glow of her phone screen and the echo of his voice whispering through her head:
"You saw me before you were meant to." The words looped in her mind like a haunting refrain.
By the time she finally stirred, sunlight had already pressed through the curtains in fractured lines. The coffee cup from last night still sat untouched on the table, its surface rippled and cold.
Ava sat up as she rubbed her temples. It had to have been a prank. Someone at the café, maybe the waitress, maybe a stranger with too much free time. She told herself that over and over as she got ready for work, but the knot in her chest refused to loosen.
The city was still damp from the night's rain. Ava walked fast, clutching her coat tighter while she forced her mind onto her article's deadline.
The newsroom was alive with chatter and the soft clatter of keyboards. She worked part-time as a lifestyle columnist, but lately, her articles had turned darker — psychology, relationships, obsession. Her editor called it "Ava's signature edge."
She was halfway through typing her latest draft when her phone buzzed. Unknown Number.
Her pulse stuttered. For a moment, she considered ignoring it. But then, against every logical reason, she answered. "Hello?"
"You sound more awake today." It was a familiar voice; that voice from; last night. Her breath remained caught. That voice again: smooth, warm and perfectly controlled.
"You need to stop calling me," she said, though it came out softer than she intended.
"Do I?" he asked. "You answered."
Her jaw tightened. "Because I want this to end."
"Do you really?" His tone was lighter this time; even teasing. "You've thought about me since last night. I can hear it in your voice." Ava's pulse quickened. "You're delusional."
"Maybe." A pause. "Or maybe I'm just right."
There was silence. She wanted to hang up. She should have but something in the calm cadence of his speech held her there. His voice was like dark velvet, wrapping around her words before she could speak them.
"Tell me," he murmured, "what are you thinking about right now?"
Ava laughed nervously. "That I should've changed my number." She intuitively continued. "That's not what I asked." Something inside her snapped in irritation. "You don't get to ask questions. You broke into my apartment."
"I didn't break in," he said evenly. "You left the window unlatched. I just left you something to remember me by." Her stomach twisted and she scoffed. "You think this is romantic?"
"No," he said softly. "It's inevitable."
She hesitated. "Why me?" She asked but there was a beat of silence.
"Because you looked at the rain like it meant something," he said finally. "Everyone else was trying to escape it. You stayed and watched."
Her lips parted. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe. His words landed like a slow strike, too intimate and observant.
"You don't believe in coincidences, do you, Ava?"
She swallowed. "I believe in boundaries."
"Good," he said, voice low and smooth. "Keep them. I'll enjoy crossing them one at a time."
Something in his tone made her chest tighten — not fear exactly, but anticipation, the kind she couldn't explain. "Don't call again," she said, though her voice was unsteady. "If you do—"
"You'll answer," he finished. "Because you're curious." The line went dead immediately after.
Ava stared at her phone with a shaky breath. She hated the fact that he was right after all. That her curiosity burned brighter than her fear.
She shoved the phone into her bag and tried to focus on her work, but every sound; the ring of a desk phone, the murmur of voices felt sharper and closer.
By the time evening came, she had rewritten the same paragraph ten times.
When she finally left the building, the city was painted in twilight gold. She crossed the street toward the subway, her mind a blur — until a familiar voice brushed her ear from behind.
"Rough day?" Ava froze. She turned and there he was. Ethan.
Real and smiling, like they had always known each other. And before she could speak, he stepped closer; close enough that she could smell rain and something darker beneath it.