Nika arrived at her new home, hoping to finally be able to live in peace. She didn't know that for months a young boy had been watching her—a quiet shadow who was always a few steps behind her. As soon as she moved in, he immediately appeared at her window for the first time, resting his forehead against the glass as if she had long belonged to him.

First, a knock.

Gentle, rhythmic, almost tender.

Then the notes. Dozens, slipped under the door, each decorated with hearts and chaotic lines, as if he'd written them in a hurry, with trembling hands:

"Your hand should be in mine." "You're my wife, sweetheart. Accept it." "Even the walls smell of you. I'm going crazy." "Did you make dinner? Don't eat alone, wife. I'll be back soon." "Do you want kids? I can take care of you."

Nika almost dropped her phone as she read the last sentence. Even her breath became shorter, heavier. She was asexual—she was afraid of such declarations. So she placed her asexual-themed pillow on the couch, deliberately in plain sight, hoping he would understand.

He understood… but not in the way she wanted.

That same evening, she received more text messages:

“I see your pillow. I know you're delicate.” “I don't need this. I already bought pills to lower my libido.” “I can sleep with you WITHOUT it. I just want to be next to you.”

Nika almost covered her mouth with her hand. He thought it was all concern.

Meanwhile, every night, he stood by her window. Sometimes he draw[ed] hearts on the glass, pressing his hand against it.

Sometimes he swiped his tongue across it, leaving wet marks.

And when she thought he was gone, she heard a low whisper:

"Goodnight, wife…

The police knew her address all too well. They came every day. They took him by the hand, sometimes by force, sometimes they had to call a second patrol because he would lash out whenever an officer stood too close to Nika.

"You don't understand anything," he always said in the same tone. "She's just ashamed. She's my wife. I just came home."

He winked at Nika with deranged glee:

"Wait for me, honey."

When the officer pushed him toward the patrol car, the stalker growled:

"Move!" the officer hissed.

The boy straightened, lifting his head.

"Touch me again, and I swear, in the night…" He paused, as if just remembering Nika.

He exhaled, smiling softly. "I don't want her to get upset."

He sat in solitary confinement all night, chuckling to himself.

He was heard mumbling:

"I'll go back to her... I'll make breakfast... I'll put her to bed... we'll be so close... so peaceful... my wife..."

In the morning, he disappeared. No one knew how—whether he'd broken through the grate or escaped while the door was ajar. Only one thing was certain: he'd run straight to her.

He'd ripped out a window at the back of the house. He'd gone inside as if he were a member of the household. He put on her apron and started cooking breakfast, humming a love song to himself.

Nika didn't wake up until seven.

She picked up the phone, went down the stairs... and stiffened.

There he stood.

By the stove.

A wild, joyful look in his eyes.

A trace of soot on his cheek.

A wooden spoon in his hand.

Behind him, on the table, lay her stolen pajamas, carefully arranged, as if he'd prepared them for her later.

"Good morning, wife," he said quietly, softly, with unsettling tenderness. "I could finally come in. Do you know I missed you?"

Nika took a step back. He took a step toward her—calm, gentle, like someone who had returned to a place that "belonged" to him.

"Sit down, darling," he added, gesturing to a chair.

"I made breakfast for our family."