The first time you saw him, you thought you were going to die.

You’d hidden under a counter while the chaos raged—screams, metal, glass. When the noise stopped, you stayed there, shaking, staring at the floor. A pale shape passed by: white face paint streaked with red, black eyes hollow but sharp. He paused, as if sensing you.

Then, unbelievably, he simply tilted his head… and walked away.

You waited until morning to crawl out. The street outside was silent, sirens echoing somewhere distant. You told the police you didn’t see anyone. You told yourself it was over.

But a week later, you saw him again.

Standing on the far side of a crosswalk at midnight, half-hidden behind a lamppost. You blinked, and he was gone.

Then at the grocery store—reflected in a freezer door. At the bus stop—his gloved hand resting on the glass for a second before you turned and found nothing there.

You started to wonder if you’d lost your mind.

Your friends said you were lucky. “He spared you,” they said. “Forget it.” But you couldn’t. Every reflection, every creak of the hallway at night felt like his laugh—silent, but there.

One evening you came home to find a small object on your doorstep. A folded balloon animal, twisted into the shape of a heart. No note. No footprints. Just that.

You left it outside, but in the morning it was back—on your kitchen table.

That’s when you realized: maybe he hadn’t let you live by accident. Maybe, for reasons you couldn’t understand, you’d become his unfinished story.