I had traced this apartment in my mind for weeks. Every sound, every shadow, every subtle movement memorized until it breathed through me. The floorboards, the angle of her chair, the rhythm of her knitting — I knew them all. The plan was precise. Almost unbearably precise.
Rain whispered against the windows as I moved. The apartment smelled faintly of tea and earth, ordinary and alive. She sat knitting, serene, unaware. I paused, adjusting the knife in my hand for a fraction of a second, marveling at how perfectly it fit. The stillness quivered in the air, and I leaned closer, savoring the fragile pause.
A soft creak betrayed me.
Her head lifted. The needles in her hands stopped mid-motion. She held her breath and listened — that instinctive, trembling stillness of prey when the dark shifts behind it. A single heartbeat stretched into many. Then, almost deliberately, she exhaled, forcing a small, practiced calm. The house was old, she told herself. Old houses make sounds. Her fingers returned to the yarn, though the rhythm faltered, every loop slower than the last. Yet deep down, she knew.
I waited by the door, unmoving, until the silence grew patient again. The faint rustle of her knitting resumed, tentative, as if afraid of being heard. I watched the curve of her back, the fragile nape of her neck. The knife felt weightless. I let time breathe, stretching it thin, until fear and patience became the same thing.
Then, quietly, deliberately, I turned the handle.
Something in her stilled. The faint rhythm of the needles ceased, arrested midair. For a moment she didn’t breathe. The world narrowed to the door, to the weight of silence pressing against her chest. A cold awareness bloomed behind her ribs, spreading like frost. Her hands trembled once, barely, before tightening around the needles — she already knew.
She sat there, frozen, listening to the sound of her own pulse. Hope became a thin, breaking thread.
I stepped inside.
The knife descended — slow, deliberate, almost loving. A frail sigh escaped her lips, as if she could not quite believe the world had turned against her. The sound lingered, fragile as a dying note. I felt her warmth bloom beneath my hand, pulsing once, then fading — the heat of life retreating like a frightened animal.
For a fleeting instant, our hearts seemed to echo — hers faltering, mine steady. The air thickened, laden with the hush of the inevitable. Her eyes found mine; in them, a dim reflection of comprehension, a hollow knowing, a soul glimpsing its own departure. In her fading gaze, I saw myself.
How still she grew. How exquisite the silence became.
I felt it — the moment’s symmetry, terrible and perfect — and in that dark quietude, pride unfurled within me like smoke. How cunning I must have been to orchestrate it all.
The room had changed; the air no longer moved as it once did. Shadows gathered in the corners, slow and sinuous, as though drawn toward her stillness — or toward me.
The floor creaked beneath me — a faint, lonely sound. Who would hear it now? Who would know?
I lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the stillness I had made. Then I turned, and the door closed behind me with a sigh that seemed almost grateful.
Outside, the rain fell softly against the stone. The air carried the faint scent of iron. I walked without haste, a quiet pride steady in my chest. The night seemed different, alive somehow, as if it had turned its gaze toward me. The world was small, and I was not.
I stood in the rain beneath the flickering lamp, waiting to learn what message it sought to deliver. The light trembled in the wind, faltering, then flaring again — a weary pulse. The rain whispered its dull hymn around me. The lamp flickered — once, twice, again — and I counted each beat in silence, as though the night had found a voice, and spoke only to me.
When the lamp dimmed and the light withdrew, the shadows unfurled across my face. They touched me like the breath of something vast and ancient. For a moment, they seemed to study me. Then the light returned, timid and pale, and the darkness slipped away, with a languid grace as though the lamp itself burned only by their permission.
I stepped back. The glow steadied, trembling faintly, as if something beneath the glass were trying to breathe.
Then I noticed — soft, even, familiar. The flicker matched her heartbeat. I knew that rhythm too well.
"It’s nothing," I told myself. "Only the light."
When I turned away, the rain reclaimed the street, yet the rhythm stayed — following just behind my steps.
I was initially inspired by the promt:
20 October 2025, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2896: what an embarrassment
And
19 October 2025, @mariannewest's Freewrite Writing Prompt Day 2895: please me
But the story unfurled in a different direction.
The image is created by me with ai.
Thanks for reading!
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