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**1. Arrival**
Elena Harper arrived in Boston on a rainy Thursday afternoon, her silver Toyota groaning under the weight of a too-full life compressed into suitcases, cardboard boxes, and one scarred wooden chair. That chair was the only thing she hadn’t been able to give away, despite the dark red wine stain on its cushion—a mark of an evening she didn’t want to remember.
Apartment 3C was on the third floor of an old red-brick building tucked between a closed laundromat and a pizza shop that only opened after sunset. The interior smelled of must and lemon cleaner. Wooden floors creaked beneath her sneakers, and the radiator in the corner hissed like an annoyed cat. Still, it had large windows that let in soft, pale light, and the view of the alley wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It felt like a pause between moments—just enough space for breathing.
The landlord, Mr. Klein, was a tall man in his fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and an expression permanently fixed somewhere between mild irritation and polite concern.
"Been empty a while," he said as he handed her the keys. "Previous tenant left in a hurry. Hope you’re staying longer."
"I plan to," Elena replied. She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
New city, new job, new life. She told herself she wasn’t running—she was starting over. The past had been left behind on I-95, somewhere near the Delaware border. She’d driven for hours with the music loud enough to drown out memory, and when that didn’t work, silence had taken over.
Still, even in the silence of her new apartment, the past whispered. It echoed in the empty corners, the unfamiliar shadows, the creak of floorboards under solitary footsteps.
---
**2. The Man in the Window**
It was a week later, a Wednesday, when she first noticed him.
Elena was at the kitchen sink, rinsing out a chipped mug, when she glanced through the window that looked across the narrow alley to the apartment opposite. A man stood in the third-floor window. Not doing anything. Just... watching.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark, unkempt hair. The light behind him was dim, casting his face in shadow. He didn’t wave. He didn’t move.
Startled, she stepped back, water dripping from her fingers onto the tile floor. When she looked again, the window was empty.
The next day, he was there again—same time, same posture. She tried to dismiss it. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe he was just looking out his own window. Coincidence.
But it kept happening.
Every night, around the same time, the man appeared. Always standing. Always watching. And always gone the moment she turned her attention elsewhere.
She told herself she was being paranoid. Cities were crowded. Windows faced windows. It was just how architecture worked. But something about the way he stood—so still, so silent—tugged at something buried deep inside her.
Something she didn’t want to feel again.
---
**3. New Job, Old Shadows**
Her job at the publishing house downtown was quiet, which was exactly what she wanted. Proofreading and copyediting offered a rhythm she could lose herself in—routine, predictable, safe.
Her coworkers were kind but distant. No one asked why she had moved. No one asked if she had family. Elena appreciated that. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone the truth.
At night, though, the window man returned.
She stopped looking directly. But her eyes would flick toward the window, almost involuntarily. Each time, he was there. Waiting.
It wasn’t just the watching. It was what it reminded her of. Dean.
There had been another apartment. Another city. Another man.
Dean had come into her life like a whirlwind—charming, magnetic, a little dangerous in the way that made you feel special. Until it changed. Until the danger turned inward.
The yelling started first. Then the bruises. Then the apologies. Always the apologies.
She had left him a year ago. Changed her number. Deleted her accounts. Filed the paperwork. The restraining order had felt like a thin piece of paper trying to hold back a hurricane.
The police had labeled it “low risk.” She called it survival.
---
**4. The First Letter**
It was a Friday morning when she found the first letter.
Folded, no envelope, slid under her apartment door. It read:
"You can run, Elena. You can change your name, your city, your job. But you’ll always be mine."
No signature. No address. Nothing.
Her hands trembled. She locked the door. Checked the windows. Called Mr. Klein.
"No cameras in the hallway," he said. "Probably just some dumb prank. But I’ll keep an eye out."
The next morning, another note appeared—this one in her mailbox.
"Nice chair in the kitchen. Didn’t think you’d keep it."
She stared at the chair, pushed into the corner of the room. Dean had bought it. He’d spilled wine on it during one of his rages. She never cleaned the stain. It reminded her not to forget.
How could anyone know that? She had driven it here herself. Alone.
She moved the chair into the closet. Changed the locks. Installed a deadbolt. And still, at night, she felt his eyes on her.
---
**5. Surveillance**
She needed proof. She needed to be sure she wasn’t losing her mind.
That Saturday, just past midnight, Elena sat in the dark with her phone camera pointed across the alley. The man stood there, as always.
She zoomed in. Took the photo.
It came out blurry. A silhouette. No face. Just outline.
The next morning, she knocked on the door of the neighbor across the hall—a woman in her sixties who always smelled of lavender and cat food.
"Sorry," Elena began, "do you know who lives in the building across the alley? Third floor?"
The woman frowned. "Empty unit, far as I know. Has been since the fire."
"Fire?"
"Last year. Some domestic situation. Man set the place on fire. Girl didn’t make it. Tragic."
Elena’s stomach dropped. "Do you know his name?"
"No, honey. I try not to get involved."
Elena didn’t sleep that night. Not because she saw the man. But because she didn’t.
---
**6. Collapse**
Over the next few days, the letters came more frequently.
“You shouldn’t have left.”
“Do you miss me?”
“The man in the window is just the beginning.”
She stopped going to work. Her phone filled with unread messages from her manager.
She called the police. Again.
They came. Took notes. Suggested stress, hallucination. Advised therapy.
"Are you absolutely sure someone is watching you?"
She almost laughed. "I’ve never been more sure of anything."
---
**7. Confrontation**
That night, Elena snapped.
She grabbed her coat, stuffed a can of pepper spray into her pocket, and crossed the alley. The door to the opposite building was unlocked.
The stairwell smelled of ash and old carpet. She climbed to the third floor, each step louder than the last.
Apartment 3C.
The door was ajar.
Inside, the walls were blackened. The ceiling sagged. The floor was coated in a layer of soot.
There was no furniture. Just a single duffel bag.
And on the walls, photographs.
Of her.
Walking to work. At the window. On the couch. Asleep.
Dozens of them.
Her breath caught in her throat. She backed away. Then ran.
The police took it seriously this time.
No fingerprints. No recent rentals. The apartment was still listed as condemned.
Inside the duffel bag were more letters. Some dated months back. Some only days old.
And one detective, barely older than she was, asked, "Are you certain Dean is still in Philadelphia?"
Elena didn’t answer.
---
**8. Moving On?**
A week later, she was in Portland.
New name. New lease. New apartment—second floor only. No alley view. No neighbors across the way.
She told no one. Deleted everything. Started over.
Again.
The building was quiet. Clean. The neighbors smiled and kept their distance.
But some nights, just before bed, when the room darkened and the window turned to a mirror, she saw something in the reflection.
A shape. A flicker. A shadow.
And she wondered:
Had she really escaped?
Or had he arrived before her?
**End.**
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