Part 59
(Adrian's POV)
The city looked the same from a distance—towers washed pale by the afternoon haze, the river cutting a dull line through it all.
He hadn't seen it in days.
He told himself he was coming back to "clear everything," but even as he drove, the words felt thin.
Leah had argued, of course.
She said the city was full of ghosts, that rest was what he needed, not confrontation.
But every ping of his phone, every whisper online had begun to fill the walls of the safe house like static.
There was no silence left there.
If I'm ever going to breathe again, he thought, I have to go where it started.
He parked in the underground level of his old apartment complex.
Everything smelled faintly of concrete and rain.
As the elevator rose, the air grew tighter; memories pressed against him like heat.
The apartment was just as he left it—bare, minimalist, too clean.
Yet there was a strange warmth to it now, the kind that comes from absence.
He stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping inside.
Boxes of unopened fan mail sat in the corner.
He picked one up, tore it open, and found a single postcard inside—blank except for a pressed sunflowers taped to the center.
No note. No name.
His fingers trembled. He almost dropped it.
No, he told himself. This isn't proof. It's just a flower.
But his heart didn't listen.
The scent of the dried petals brought the hospital back—the hum of machines, the whisper in the dark.
He put the card down, walked to the window, and forced his breath to slow.
The city below buzzed with life: cars, lights, voices.
It all sounded almost normal.
This time, I'm not running, he said aloud, the words small but steady.
And somewhere in that noise—somewhere beyond the glass—he imagined someone else listening, waiting.