The rain poured down relentlessly as I hurried down the narrow alley, clutching my umbrella against the wind. It had been a long day at work, and all I wanted was to get home and sink into the warm embrace of a hot bath. But then, I noticed him.
A tall figure, cloaked in shadows, stood at the end of the alley. His head tilted as if studying me. I couldn’t make out his face, but something in his stance made me uneasy. He took a step toward me, his movements slow and deliberate.
“Anna?” he called out, his voice hoarse and filled with an edge of desperation.
I glanced over my shoulder, convinced he must be talking to someone else. But I was alone. I turned back to him, unsure of what to say.
“I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken,” I replied, my voice echoing slightly in the empty street.
The man paused, his head lowering, his shoulders drooping. “Oh, but Anna,” he said softly, “you always say that.”
A shiver crawled up my spine. “No, really, my name is Sarah,” I insisted, stepping back. But as I took in his face, I was struck by a chilling realization—his eyes looked… empty. Not in the sense of sadness or loss, but truly void, as though something had sucked the life right out of them.
He shook his head, muttering, “You’ve forgotten again. Every time, Anna, you forget me.”
I backed away, but he advanced, his voice growing more insistent. “I waited for you, you know. That night, at the old lighthouse. You said you would come, and I believed you.”
I had never been to any lighthouse, nor had I ever met this man. I was desperate to get away, but something in his tone—filled with yearning and rage—kept me rooted in place.
“You left me to rot, Anna,” he whispered, his face now inches from mine. His breath was cold, freezing cold, and his gaze pierced through me.
I stammered, “I… I’m not Anna. Please, you’ve got the wrong person.”
His expression twisted into a look of betrayal and sorrow. “If you’re not Anna,” he murmured, almost to himself, “then where is she?”
He reached out, his icy fingers grazing my cheek. Instinctively, I jerked back, breaking whatever strange hold he had over me. I ran, hearing his anguished cries echo down the alley.
I didn’t stop running until I reached my apartment. My heart pounded as I locked the door behind me, every nerve in my body on edge.
For days afterward, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching me. I’d catch glimpses of his shadow in the distance, feel the chill of his presence in the air. And then, one evening, as I was turning off the lights to go to bed, I heard it—his voice, a whisper in the dark.
“Anna… I’m waiting for you.”
I barely slept that night, haunted by the stranger’s voice echoing through my room. The sound of his whisper, “Anna… I’m waiting for you,” circled in my mind, growing louder and colder each time I closed my eyes. When I finally did drift off, the dreams were dark and heavy, filled with shadows and that man’s hollow eyes.
Over the next few days, I couldn’t shake the sense of dread. Every time I left my apartment, I’d see glimpses of him out of the corner of my eye—a figure watching from a window, a shadow slipping around a corner, or a fleeting face in a crowd. No matter how fast I walked or how far I went, I felt his gaze burning into me.
One evening, desperate for answers, I returned to the narrow alley where I first saw him. The place felt colder than I remembered, the air thick and damp as though the walls themselves held secrets. I didn’t expect to find him there, but somehow, I hoped I would—just to put an end to the torment.
As I reached the end of the alley, I heard his voice, a low whisper, coming from the shadows.
“Anna… you came back.”
I turned, and there he was, standing inches away, his face gaunt and twisted with a mix of sorrow and fury. I tried to speak, but no words came out. His gaze bore into me, as if trying to find something familiar in my eyes.
“Why did you abandon me?” he murmured. “Why didn’t you come back that night?”
“I’m not Anna!” I cried, my voice trembling. “I don’t know you, I’ve never known you!”
His face twisted in pain, and for a moment, I thought he might lash out. But then he sighed, as though some invisible weight was pressing down on him. “If you’re not Anna,” he said quietly, “then there’s only one way I can find her.”
Before I could react, he reached out, his cold fingers wrapping around my wrist. The world spun, and suddenly, I was plunged into darkness. I heard his voice, echoing faintly around me, as if from a great distance. “I’ll keep searching… until I find her…”
When I opened my eyes, I found myself back in my apartment, alone. The air felt different—stale, as though time had passed without me. I looked around, feeling dizzy and disoriented, only to realize that days, maybe even weeks, had passed.
But the strangest part? On my wrist was a faint, icy mark, like the trace of his touch burned into my skin. No matter how hard I scrubbed, it wouldn’t disappear.
And every night, as I lay in bed, I still hear his voice echoing in the darkness, calling out for Anna… and now, it seems, calling out for me.