The oven timer beeps softly.
The smell hits me a moment later. Warm. Sweet. Cinnamon and vanilla, undercut with something richer. Brown sugar, maybe.
It fills the apartment. Cuts through the sterile, empty smell that's lingered since I moved in. Invasive. Inescapable.
I don't hate it.
A towel rustles. The water turns off. A cabinet opens, closes. She's finishing up.
The humming stops.
The silence that replaces it feels wrong. Hollow in a way it wasn't before she arrived.
Her footsteps move toward the door. Slower now. Deliberate. She pauses near the counter. I hear the soft scrape of a pen on paper. She's leaving a note.
The pen scratches for a few more seconds, then stops. She sets it down. Her footsteps resume.
The door opens. Closes. The lock engages with a soft metallic click.
She's gone.
The apartment is silent again. The heating system hums. The wind groans against the glass. Everything is exactly as it was before she arrived.
Except it isn't.
The smell of banana bread lingers. Warm and sweet and so out of place in this sterile apartment that it feels like an intrusion. Like someone reached into my space and left a mark I can't erase.
I exhale slowly. Set the gun on the side table. My hand finds the glass, but it's empty.
I lean back against the sofa. The leather creaks softly. My shoulders relax by a fraction.
Good thing she didn't go snooping. Good thing she didn't walk past the kitchen, turn the corner, see me sitting here with a weapon in my hand.
Good thing I was sitting in the dark.
The dark.
I hadn't thought about it. Hadn't registered it.
Because I can't see it.
I'm blind.
2
ARTAN
The note sits on the counter next to the banana bread, folded once, the edges crisp.
I pick it up. The paper is thin. The handwriting is clean, looping. Not rushed.
Hope you enjoy the bread. Welcome home.
That's it. No signature. No name. Just the assumption that whoever walks through that door deserves a welcome.
I read it twice.
Then I fold it again and slip it into my pocket. Don't know why.
