The sky had dipped into dusk-swept indigo by the time Reyhaan stepped out.

The apartment’s outer gate clicked behind him. The air was mild, the light golden from rows of overhead bulbs lining the footpath. The city had quieted some – the louder crowds gone, replaced by the occasional laugh from a nearby street, bike wheels ticking past.

He walked along the footpath toward where his car was parked – just across from a row of hedges and a bike rack. The street wasn’t busy. A golden retriever padded beside a man wearing headphones, oblivious to the world. A cyclist rang their bell from behind and veered left. Evening noises, all muted but present.

Then, a lull.

No laughter. No bell. Just his footsteps, and a pause that didn’t feel empty.

The headlights of a car blinked on somewhere behind him. Reyhaan kept walking.

Something flickered in the corner of his eye.

A side panel – silver, polished – caught a ripple. A flicker, warped by curve and chrome. A figure, maybe. Or just the city’s reflection stuttering under orange light. Too brief to be sure. Too sharp to ignore.

Then –

A sound. A small jingle. Metal on metal.

He slowed. Tilted his head just slightly to listen.

It came again. Not from him. Not from the street.

A jingle of keys, muffled but rhythmic. It matched his pace.

His spine stayed loose, but his breath caught – just for a beat. Not fear. Not yet. Just the feeling that something was half a second behind him – and didn’t want to be seen.

He didn’t turn around.

Just unlocked the car with a subtle motion, his shoulders settling in that quiet way he always did when alert. Calm on the outside. Watchful within.

Once inside, he sat a moment, then picked up his phone.

The engine clicked into silence. He let the cabin hum beneath his hands a moment longer. The sound from earlier – still there, somewhere in his ribs.

Reyhaan: Think someone’s been following me. Felt it earlier too – outside the studio. This time near Aria’s.

Lucian’s reply was nearly instant.

Lucian: Security hasn’t flagged anything. Want me to check footage?

Reyhaan: Not yet.

He started the engine. Pulled away from the curb, eyes flicking once to the rearview mirror, just as a figure slipped past the edge of a parked van – or maybe not.

Second time this week. Same rhythm. Same silence.

He didn’t slow.

But the silence that followed carried weight.

Like a note held just too long – long enough to mean something.

The bakery smelled faintly of orange zest and proofing yeast – a Sunday morning scent that hadn’t changed in years.

Reyhaan’s mother studied the two loaves in her hands, weighing texture against mood. One was seeded multigrain, the other a soft honeyed crust. Her husband stood a few steps away, peering down at a tray of sugarless biscuits with the focused intensity of a man inspecting blueprints.

A fragment surfaced – not strong, just there. Like warmth left on skin from the sun. Years ago, Reyhaan and Ayaan would come with them on these quiet errands. Ayaan always wandered straight to the pastry section, small hands pressed to the glass, eager. Reyhaan, steadier, used to circle the cookie counter with the practiced seriousness of a boy on a mission – scanning for the orange blossom with pistachio kind. It hadn’t shown up often, but when it did, he noticed it first.

“You always say you’ll eat them,” she remarked gently, returning to now, “but then I find them a week later – unopened.”

He gave a huff, not turning. “That’s because you hide them behind your tea boxes.”

She smiled to herself and placed both loaves into the basket.

A man stepped up beside her at the bread shelf – mid-thirties, clean-shaven, a dark canvas jacket worn just enough at the edges. He reached for the rye, then paused – glancing sideways.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I hope I’m not mistaken, but... you’re Reyhaan’s mother, aren’t you?”

She stilled, just for a moment. The loaf’s edge pressed faintly into her palm.

The man’s expression remained easy. “I think I saw you once – at one of those shows, maybe? You were there for VYER, right?”

She didn’t answer directly. Just gave a noncommittal hum, soft and polite.

“Must’ve been years ago,” he added, like he was reaching for something long-buried. “But something about it stuck.”

She adjusted the basket’s strap on her wrist. Not unfriendly – just shifting her weight, rebalancing something that had quietly tipped. Noticing, suddenly, how the air felt slightly cooler on her hands.

The man wasn’t intrusive, not in tone. But there was a slight tilt to the way he held eye contact. Observant. Too precise.

“I caught glimpses of him again last year,” he went on, as if continuing a thought she hadn’t responded to. “During his break. He was at university here, wasn’t he?”

She stayed quiet – still pleasant, unreadable.

He nodded as though confirming it for himself. “There was something in the news then, wasn’t there? I forget what exactly. He was wearing one of those customized hoodies. Blue, right? With a quote – the one his batchmates had. Something about the whole thing seemed... different. Do you remember what it was?”

She gave a faint shake of her head. A small, practiced smile. “I’m not sure.”

“Hmm.” He clicked his tongue lightly, then shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Anyway, it must be nice. Seeing him find his way back into things. He always had that kind of quiet pull, didn’t he?”

She didn’t respond. Just turned slightly, angling herself toward the register where her husband was already queuing.

The man caught on. He smiled, not unkindly. “Well – lovely to see you. Sorry if I disturbed anything.”

She gave a short nod. “No disturbance.”

He left with a polite nod, empty-handed.

And as he passed, she caught the metallic clink of keys in his hand – sharp, deliberate. A detail that landed too firmly for her to ignore.

Her husband glanced at her over his shoulder from the line, raising the biscuit pack slightly. She joined him without a word.

But even as the cashier bagged their things, even as they stepped into sunlight and the world resumed its usual noise, she found herself glancing once behind them – as if retracing a presence, not a person.

In the car, her husband turned the key in the ignition – soundlessly.

She noticed the absence.

“They didn’t have the rye?”

She looked down at the paper bag in her lap. “They did.”

He glanced over, brow raised.

She shook her head faintly. Her gaze lingered on the folds of the receipt. “It’s nothing. Just –”

He said something else – maybe about jam or apricot glaze – but she didn’t catch it.

I don’t know why it stuck with me. Just a man in a bakery.

But the feeling didn’t go away. Not even when they were home.

It shouldn’t matter. But she knew the shape of unease – and it never came without reason.