The next evening, I sat at my desk, my math notebook open in front of me, but the numbers blurred into gray lines.
I stared at equations whose meaning escaped me, while my thoughts drifted back – to last night, to the silence, to Alaric's hand on mine, to his words: I'm not a hero.
The sentence echoed. Not like a confession, but like a warning.
I traced my pencil across the page without writing, listening to the darkness behind me. The house was quiet.
Downstairs, the refrigerator hummed; somewhere, a faucet dripped as if counting the seconds.
The familiar sounds suddenly seemed too loud, as if they were holding their breath, just like me.
Then – a knock.
Not loud, more of a sharp tapping, impatient.
My heart stumbled.
I lifted my head, looked toward the window.
Another tap, slightly firmer this time.
I stood up, hesitating, and pushed the curtain aside.
And froze.
Malaric.
