ADVERTISEMENT
Every night when I came home from work, he was there.
Same place.
Same bench beside the entrance to my apartment building.
Same thin, filthy brown coat that looked nowhere near warm enough for the November cold.
At first, I tried not to judge him.
I grew up in a family that believed people deserved dignity regardless of how they looked or where they slept.
But my parents had also taught me something from the time I was old enough to walk home alone:
Pay attention to your surroundings.
And there was something about this man that made every instinct in my body tighten.
He didn’t ask anyone for money.
He didn’t approach people.
He didn’t even seem particularly interested in the people passing him.
He just sat there.
Watching.
More specifically, watching the second floor of my building.
And unfortunately, my apartment was on the second floor.
The first time I noticed him, I assumed he was simply resting.
The second night, he was there again.
By the fifth night, I had started changing the way I came home.
I’d stop at the corner and pretend to check my phone.
Sometimes I’d wait several minutes, hoping he’d leave.
He never did.
Eventually, I’d force myself toward the entrance while keeping my keys between my fingers.
Whenever I passed him, I could feel his eyes lift.
Not directly toward me.
Toward the building.
Toward my window.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
And that frightened me more.
My apartment wasn’t luxurious. It was a modest one-bedroom place in an older building squeezed between a bakery and a small pharmacy.
I’d moved there eight months earlier after getting my first decent job in the city.
Living alone had felt like freedom.
Until the man appeared.
ADVERTISEMENT
