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Chapter 12: The Return
Ifa had begun to recognize the sound of emptiness.
It lived in the lift lobby after ten at night, where she exhaled to end the day. She stood alone, helmet tucked under her arm, phone in her other hand, scrolling without really reading. She had learned not to look too expectant when waiting for lifts. Expectation made you vulnerable.
The indicator above the doors glowed orange. Descending. That was when she sensed it.
Not a sound at first—just a pressure, like the air had thickened. The instinct that had kept her upright through years of rebuilding stirred, sharp and sudden. She looked up.
He stood near the stairwell. For a second, her mind refused to cooperate. It offered alternatives. A stranger. A trick of memory. Someone who only looked like....
Then he stepped into the light. Older. Thinner. The arrogance that once filled his posture had collapsed inward, replaced by something hollow and coiled. His hair was cropped short now, uneven, his face sharper, eyes sunk too deep into their sockets.
But it was him. Her ex-husband. She looked at her phone, on the date. It read 10th May 2009. She had overlooked the period he would be...
Released.
Her breath stalled. Not fear, but shock. The kind that numbs before it cuts. He must have been out for a year, he found her.
“Ifa,” he said, softly. Like her name still belonged to him.
Her body moved before her thoughts caught up. She took a step back, fingers tightening around her phone. The lift indicator ticked downward, agonizingly slow.
“How did you..” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “You shouldn’t be here.”
He smiled. Not the smile she remembered. This one was wrong. Too careful. Too practiced.
“I looked for you,” he said. “Sorry, it took this long. You were usually always predictable.”
The word landed like a bruise.
She glanced around. Empty. No footsteps. No voices. Just the loud silence and the quiet threat standing between her and the lift door.
“You need to leave,” she said. “Now.”
He took a step closer.
“I just wanted to talk,” he said. “I miss you. How is my baby?”
Her pulse thudded in her ears. The lift chimed somewhere above. She could feel the seconds slipping, stretching.
“Stay back,” she warned.
He didn’t.
The doors slid open behind her with a soft, merciless chime.
Ifa moved. She quickly stepped into the lift and slammed her thumb against the Close Door button—once, twice, again, again! Her heartbeat syncing with the frantic motion. The doors hesitated, as lifts always did, as if deciding whether to betray her.
He lunged.
Her breath caught as his hand hit the gap, fingers brushing metal, but the doors continued closing. His face twisted—not in pain, but in fury—as the gap narrowed. The doors shut. The lift ascended. Ifa slumped against the wall, lungs burning, knees weak. Her hands trembling, her mind everywhere...
She didn’t cry. Crying came later. That night, she barely slept. Every sound outside her apartment made her sit upright, heart racing. She checked the locks twice. Then three times. Then again before dawn.
The next morning, there was a message on her phone.
Unknown Number:
So, now you ride a bike, huh?
Her fingers went cold.
She blocked the number.
Another message came an hour later. Different number.
Saw you leave this morning. You look tired.
She changed her routine. Took different routes. Rode only in daylight. Stayed in crowded places longer than necessary. She told herself she was being cautious, not afraid.
But fear has a way of leaking through logic. She began to notice things. A man across the street, head lowered beneath a cap. A reflection in a shop window that lingered too long. Footsteps behind her that stopped when she did. Sometimes she convinced herself she was imagining it.
Sometimes she wasn’t. One evening, she returned to her bike to find something tucked beneath the seat. A folded piece of paper. Her name, written in his handwriting.
We’re not done, I will be watching you.
Ifa stood very still, the world narrowing around her. Traffic roared past, indifferent. People moved, laughed, lived. And somewhere nearby, he was watching. She looked up slowly, scanning the street.
Nothing.
But the silence felt deliberate now. Calculated. She slid the note into her pocket, mounted her bike, and rode off - faster than she should have, heart pounding, mind racing. For the first time since losing her job, she wasn’t afraid of stillness. She was afraid of being seen. And she knew, with chilling certainty, that this was only the beginning.
/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)
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