That evening, after dinner, my wife and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. The air was gentle, and the moon hung low and pale above the rooftops. She talked about the past—how we used to rent apartments, moving every few months like ghosts with cardboard boxes. I nodded, but my attention was somewhere else.
I was listening to our footsteps.
There were three.
I'm a former soldier. My ears are trained. I can tell when someone's moving in sync and when there's a rhythm that doesn't belong. There was a third cadence—light, careful, soft as a stalking cat.
I turned around.
The stone path behind us was empty. Streetlamps shaped like old lanterns glowed faintly. The hedges along the walkway swayed ever so slightly, deepened in color by the dim light.
"You remember our old place?" she said.
"Hmm."
"Three days in one place, then another box, another lease. God, I hated that life."
I nodded again.
"My biggest dream back then was to have a home. A real one."
"Mmm."
"You okay?" she asked. "You've barely said a word."
"Just tired," I said.
But I wasn't tired. I was tense. I turned again. This time, I saw him.
The night security guard. Officer J.
He walked slowly behind us—blue uniform, red cap, red shoulder patches, red belt. His eyes didn't flinch. They were staring straight at me. Or maybe, they had been locked on my wife's legs. She was wearing loose shorts. Her legs were pale and perfect. Even I had trouble not looking.
She must've felt something too. She glanced back briefly, saw him, then turned forward again, pretending nothing was wrong.
"He's been gone for six months now," she said, referring to our son. "I miss him so much. Don't you?"
I had no words. The guard had every right to be there. He was on patrol. This was his job. But something felt... deliberate. Too slow. Too focused.
I didn't like how he walked. I didn't like how he watched.
And most of all, I didn't like how powerless I suddenly felt.