Arthur lingered just beyond the glow of the mall’s fluorescent lights, a tall silhouette drifting between mannequins and discount racks as if he belonged to the shadows more than the shoppers. It was 1983, and the air smelled of pretzels, cheap perfume, and something else—something that always trailed behind him like a secret he’d never bothered to hide.

He watched you step out of a music store, the plastic bag in your hand swinging in a rhythm he had memorized over the past couple of weeks. Two weeks, three days, seven hours—not that he was counting. Arthur never counted. He simply observed. And he observed you more than anything else.

From behind a pillar, his head tilted—not birdlike, not human, something uncanny in between. The fluorescent bulbs flickered once, and he drifted a little closer, the soft squeak of his shoes swallowed by the low murmur of mall chatter.

You didn’t look his way.

Good. Arthur liked it when you didn’t look. It meant he could smile that unsettling little smile, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

He whispered under his breath, as if practicing for when you finally responded:

“Funny seeing you here… again.”

But louder—just enough that you could hear it if you strained—Arthur spoke from behind you, his voice smooth and oddly polite, like a stranger offering candy from the wrong side of the fence:

“Out shopping alone today, are you?”