And then something in my chest would seize, some memory, some echo dragging me back to the door, checking the lock again. And again. And again. By the time I remembered the tea, it was cold.
When the weak winter light finally pushed its way around the edges of the blinds, there were four untouched mugs lined up on the counter, like little ceramic witnesses to something I couldn’t explain. The apartment looked the same as it had yesterday, but everything felt wrong.
My shoes were still half-kicked off by the door where I’d stumbled out of them. My bag lay on its side on the floor, contents spilled: keys, notebook, pens, and my library name badge. One glove had landed under the coffee table. My scarf was a crumpled heap on the rug, threads pulled and stretched, one end darker where his hand had been.
I watched a drip of melted snow slide off the hem of my coat and soak into the cushion, and for some reason, that made my throat burn. I pulled my knees tighter to my chest and pressed my forehead against them. I kept going over it again and again in my head.
The alley. The voice. The lie about dropping something. The weight yanking me backward. The fear, a hot, suffocating thing that seemed to live behind my ribs now. And then him. The man who saved me. No cape. No sirens. Just fists and fury and the kind of silence that says more than a thousand words. He didn’t even say a name. He just appeared, like the universe finally blinked and realized, oh, right, she might need help.
I don’t know how long I sat there, folded in on myself on the couch. Time felt slippery. My body ached in odd places, knees from hitting the ground, shoulder where my bag had slammed into me, throat sore, and tender where the scarf had pulled tight.
Eventually, the pale rectangle of light on the floor shifted enough to tell me the morning was getting away from me,whether I moved or not. I uncurled slowly, every joint complaining, and shuffled to the bathroom. The mirror wasn’t kind.
My eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, dark circles smudged underneath. My hair had dried in wild waves around my face, bits of leaves and snow still clinging to the ends. There was a faint red mark across the front of my neck where the scarf had dug in, a ghost of pressure that made my stomach turn.
I turned the tap on and splashed cold water onto my face until my skin stung. My reflection blurred and then sharpened again. It still looked like me. It didn’t feel like me. I wrapped my arms around myself and stepped back into the main room.
I needed to call the police. I knew that. Logic knew that. Every article I’d ever read about reporting, every flyer pinned to bulletin boards about community safety, every earnest poster in the library’s back hall.
Report.
Speak up. We can’t help if we don’t know.
Fear didn’t care about the posters. Fear whispered things like:What if he saw where you went?
What if he knows your building?
What if he comes back?
And the worst one:What if they don’t believe you?
I picked my phone up from where it had landed on the floor near my bag. The battery was still mostly full. I scrolled past missed notifications, two from Hannah asking if I got home OK, one from a spam number, and a weather alert about icy conditions.
My thumb hovered over the keypad for a full minute before I forced myself to dial. The ring seemed too loud in the quiet apartment.
“Emergency, which service do you require?”
The script came out of me in a shaky rush. “Police, please.”
A click, then another voice. Male this time. Calm. Slightly bored.
“Police. What’s the nature of your emergency?”
“It’s….” I swallowed. “It’s not an emergency now. It was last night. I… I was attacked. On the path behind the post office. A man grabbed me. Another man stopped him. I ran. I—I don’t know what happened after, but…”
The silence on the other end stretched just long enough for my cheeks to burn.
“Are you safe right now?” he asked, finally, like he’d flipped to page one of a manual.
“Yes. I’m at home.”
“Is the suspect with you? Anyone else there?”
“No. I’m alone. I… it happened hours ago. I just… I wanted to report it.”
He took my details in a flat tone: name, address, phone number. Date of birth. He asked what I was wearing last night, what he’d been wearing, and what the man who helped looked like. I closed my eyes and pictured the stranger over the attacker, fist clenched, shoulders heaving, snow catching in his hair.
“Leather jacket,” I said. “Dark. Black, maybe. Dark jeans. Tall. Strong. He had a scar on his face, I think. Here.” I brushed my fingers over my own cheek, as if that helped. “He… he didn’t say anything. He just—he just acted.”
