Was he here for revenge? For answers? For something I couldn't give him because I didn't remember the faces of the dead?
I took a step toward him.
He didn't move.
Another step. Another. The distance between us shrinking, the streetlamp casting his face in shadow, hiding his features.
"Hey."
My voice was hoarse. I hadn't spoken to anyone in days—or maybe weeks, or maybe just hours, I couldn't remember.
"Hey—who are you?"
He didn't answer.
I took another step. Three left between us. Two. One.
He turned and walked away.
I ran.
The street was empty. The corner was empty. The alley where he'd disappeared was empty—just a dumpster and some trash and a cat that hissed at me and disappeared into the dark.
He was gone.
I'd imagined him.
I was losing my mind.
I stood in the alley with my hands on my knees, breathing hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. The knife was in my hand—I didn't remember drawing it—and the blade caught the light from the streetlamp, gleaming silver and sharp.
"Daddy."
The word came out as a whisper, a prayer, a plea.
"Daddy, I saw someone. Someone watching me. Someone following me."
"Is it you?"
"Are you coming back?"
"Are you testing me?"
No answer.
The alley was empty. The street was empty. The city was empty, and I was alone, and the shadow had never been there at all.
I started walking again.
The streets were familiar now—not because I knew them, but because I'd walked them so many times. The corner store with the flickering sign. The church with the broken steeple. The bar with the lights off and the door locked and the windows dark.
The Lost Hours.
I'd never been inside.
But I'd walked past it a dozen times, a hundred times, drawn to it for reasons I couldn't name.
"Daddy."
