Part 67
(Adrian's POV)
Night folded over the city, stretching light into thin lines of gold and blue.
Adrian walked home through the noise — the murmur of traffic, the shuffle of shoes, the pulse of life that never really slept here.
It was strange how a place could still feel like home and yet whisper that he didn't belong anymore.
By the time he reached his apartment, he was tired enough to forget the sense of being followed. Almost.
He greeted the security guard, stepped into the elevator, and stared at his reflection in the mirror as the doors slid shut.
His face looked calm, composed — but his hands were trembling.
He'd felt eyes on him since the park.
And deep down, he already knew whose they were.
The elevator chimed.
He stepped into the hallway, quiet except for the hum of lights, and reached for his door.
Then he saw it.
A small folded note, lying just inside the threshold.
He froze. For a heartbeat, the world tilted — the soft carpet under his shoes, the faint smell of flowers in the air, the hum of the city outside — everything tightening around that single piece of paper.
He didn't have to open it to know.
He recognized the fold, the type of paper, even the sharp corners — details so ordinary that no one else would notice, but he did.
Still, he crouched, picked it up, and unfolded it.
One line, written in that same elegant, deliberate hand he hadn't seen since that night:
"Even sunflowers grow in the dark."
No signature. She never needed one.
His breath caught. His throat felt tight, dry.
So she'd found him again — in this new building, under a different manager, after everything.
He'd changed numbers, security codes, even addresses. None of it mattered. She always found the pattern.
He set the note down slowly, staring at it as if it might disappear if he looked long enough.
But it didn't.
It just stayed there — quiet, certain, alive.
He looked toward the window, the city lights flickering in the glass.
A shadow moved far below — quick, fluid, gone before he could focus.
His reflection stared back at him, pale and unsteady.
She's here again.
And since his return, the city no longer felt like home.
It felt like she was waiting.