The whisper slid close to my ear this time.
“Better not sleep in your apartment,” another warned.
Then the footsteps moved—retreating. The sharp clicks of heels fading into the distance.
Their voices lingered behind them, angry, jealous, bitter—like something rotting in the air.
They were leaving.
For now.
I ended the call without another word and pushed myself up slowly.
I brushed dirt from my palms, from my clothes—though I knew it made little difference. My tights were torn. My skinstung. My hair had fallen loose, strands clinging messily around my face.
My cheeks throbbed where they had struck me.
None of it mattered.
Zara needed me.
That was the only thing that mattered.
I adjusted my grip on my cane and began moving forward, sweeping it carefully across the ground.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each step measured, despite the urgency pressing against my ribs.
I located the curb, the open space where the road thinned into silence, and the faint, steady hum of an engine idling nearby.
The Uber.
Before I could reach for the handle, the car door opened from the inside.
“Here, ma’am.”
The driver’s voice came again.
But this time—something in it had shifted.
Too subtle for most people to catch. Too small to question. But not for me.
My awareness sharpened instantly.
Most drivers, when they realised I was blind, behaved in predictable ways.
They overcompensated. Reached out too quickly. Touched an elbow, a wrist, a shoulder—clumsy gestures wrapped in forced kindness, trying to guide me before I asked.
This man didn’t.
Not a single point of contact. Not even an accidental brush as he stood holding the door open. He kept a careful distance, precise enough that it felt measured.
I paused—just long enough for the moment to fully map the space between us.
