Then he underlined one sentence again—slow and deliberate, ink soaking into the paper like a secret.
A good ending is the one nobody sees coming.
He closed the book gently and wrote inside the cover in neat block letters:
YOU LIKE STORIES. SO DO I.
His eyes flicked to the nightstand. A plain lamp. Practical.
He nudged it an inch.
Just enough to shift the balance of the room. Just enough for her to feel it without knowing why.
Then he tested the drawer beneath.
It gave easily.
He eased it open, looked without touching anything, and closed it again—careful, quiet.
Only the faintest change in the angle of the handle.
A detail she’d notice if she ever really looked.
He took one last sweep.
The bed.
The book.
Perfect.
He hadn’t taken anything.
He’d left something.
That was the difference between theft and authorship.
He slipped out, locked the door behind him, and went back down the stairwell.
The keys went back on the hook.
Ring.
Tag.
Exactly where the old man expected them to be.
He closed the storage room door and stepped into the alley.
Somewhere on Main Street, the town carried on—cars rolling by, someone laughing near the café. Life continuing like nothing was wrong.
He checked his watch.
She’d be out at the range right now.
In a couple of hours, she’d climb those stairs smelling like gunpowder and sweat and earned pride.
By midnight, she’d be gone.
