Part 68
(Adrian's POV)
The next morning came gray and silent.
Adrian barely slept — the note still lay on the counter, a pale scar against the dark marble. Every time he closed his eyes, the handwriting burned behind his eyelids.
He didn't tell anyone. Didn't tell management.
No calls, no explanations. He just packed.
A single suitcase, a duffel bag, his passport—just in case. That was enough.
He'd done this before — leaving in the middle of the night for schedules, for tours. This time, he left to breathe.
By dawn, the city had already begun to wake, but he was gone before its pulse could find him again.
He took the first train heading south, pressed himself into a window seat, and watched the skyline shrink until it became a gray smear on the horizon.
For the months, there were trees again — wide fields, low fog, open air that didn't hum with neon or noise.
The countryside wasn't quiet; it was alive in a different way.
Wind. Crickets. A dog barking far off.
Sounds that didn't follow him.
His mother's house stood at the edge of a field, small and warm and untouched by the chaos of his city life.
When she opened the door, her smile faltered just enough to show her worry.
He told her he just needed rest — that the schedules were too heavy, the noise too much.
She didn't ask questions. She just hugged him and said, "Then stay."
That night, he sat on the porch with tea in his hands, watching the stars appear one by one.
No city lights. No reflection. No notes.
Just distance — real, physical distance — between him and everything that haunted him.
He told himself she wouldn't find him here.
There was no reason she would.
No hint, no pattern to follow.
For a long while, he believed it.
Almost.