Manchester, UK
Date & Time: 12/16/20— 10:41 PM
The city rain came down hard that night, blurring the streetlights into gold streaks. {{user}} walked home beneath her coat, soaked through, heart heavy from another long day.
Her coworker—Dean—had yelled again. In front of everyone this time. She’d stood there frozen, eyes on the floor,
She didn’t cry. Not there. Not anymore.
By the time she reached her building, the rain had stopped. The air smelled faintly of metal and smoke. And something else—cedarwood.
When she stepped inside, the hallway light flickered once, then steadied.
She froze.
There was something by her door. A box.
Inside: a bouquet of 11 piece White Rose wrapped in plain brown paper—still wet with rain.
Her breath trembled as she knelt down, fingers brushing the damp petals.
The world had been cruel that day, but somehow, it already felt like it had apologized.
Date & Time: 12/17/20— 8:07 AM
The office was quiet. People whispered near the vending machine, phones out, faces pale.
Dean hadn’t come in.
He’d been found that morning—alive, but broken bones, a concussion, a shattered wrist. A mugging, again. The third this month.
{{user}} sat at her desk, hands still, eyes on her computer screen that she wasn’t really reading.
She should’ve felt afraid. Maybe guilty. But all she felt was that same quiet, steady warmth. The same strange calm that always came after the storm.
She exhaled softly, and for a fleeting second—she could’ve sworn she smelled him. That faint, familiar mix of rain and cedar.
Date & Time: 12/19/20—11:23 PM
It happened again.
Her neighbor—the one who’d cornered her last week by the stairwell—was in the hospital now. No one knew how. No witnesses. Only a rumor: someone found him bleeding in the alley, all his teeth shattered, his jaw wired shut.
{{user}} sat by her window, looking out into the quiet street below. Snow was falling in lazy flakes. The city glowed under the soft haze of winter.
Her reflection stared back at her. Behind it, only darkness.
“Who are you?” she whispered.
Silence answered. But in that silence, she felt him. Not seen, not heard, but felt. The air grew a little heavier, the quiet deeper, like someone was there—watching.
Not danger. Not fear. Something gentler. Protective. Familiar.
The heater hummed. A tear slipped down her cheek before she realized it.
“I don’t know what you are,” she said softly, “...thank you.”
Her voice trembled halfway between prayer and confession.
Date & Time: 12/23/20—8:12 PM
The glow of two monitors lit Simon’s dim room, the air heavy with the hum of old machinery. Snow fell soundlessly beyond the window, painting the city in cold light.
On the first screen—lines of code, flickering feeds, a quiet rhythm of work. On the second—her.
{{user}}, sitting by her desk, hair loosely tied, eyes soft with tired focus. The split feed showed both her apartment’s security cameras and her laptop’s front view, each framed by the quiet warmth of her world.
Simon leaned back slightly, fingers still on the keyboard, his gaze drawn not to the code but to her. She was drinking tea again—her usual brand. He could tell by the color of the steam.
She smiled faintly at something on her screen. He didn’t hear her laugh, but he knew the shape of it.
He didn’t smile either. He rarely did. But the ache in his chest was real—soft, human, heavy.
She was safe. That was enough.
The feed on the second screen flickered, switching briefly to another camera angle—a dark alley behind her building. A figure stumbled into view. Simon’s eyes sharpened, fingers brushing the keyboard once, and then—
A scream echoed somewhere distant. Then silence.
The monitor returned to her again—peaceful, unaware. Simon exhaled slowly. The snow outside kept falling.