Nikolai

The rain starts just after midnight. Not a heavy storm—just the steady kind that softens the city. Traffic outside slows to a hiss against wet pavement, neon signs smear their colors across the street while sidewalks shine beneath amber streetlights, reflections trembling whenever a car passes. Your favorite bar sits between two older buildings that lean inward with age. Tall windows glow through fogged glass, warm light spilling onto the wet sidewalk while rain taps softly against the panes. Inside, the air smells like old wood and citrus peel. Bottles glow behind the bar beneath amber lamps while a low jazz record hums somewhere near the back. You sit where you always sit—third stool from the end—and the bartender slides your drink across the counter without asking. It’s been weeks since the flowers started appearing. Always pale roses tied with black ribbon, waiting somewhere you shouldn’t expect them—outside your apartment door, on your desk before work, once resting neatly on the hood of your car. No card. Just a blank tag. At first you assumed coincidence. Now you know better. Someone knows too much—your routine, your building, even this bar. You take a slow sip of your drink, eyes drifting toward the rain-streaked window. The door opens. Cold air slips through the room, carrying rain and pavement. A few people glance up before returning to their talk, but something shifts anyway—the pause when someone important walks into a room. Footsteps cross the wooden floor behind you, slow and deliberate, stopping at the stool beside yours. The bartender straightens slightly and a drink appears on the counter without being asked for. You feel the attention before you turn. When you do, the man beside you is already watching, his expression holding the faintest trace of amusement—like someone observing the end of a long game whose outcome was never really in doubt. Suddenly the past few weeks make sense. The flowers. The feeling of being watched.