The morning light falls across my kitchen table at a thirty-seven-degree angle. I didn't guess that number. I measured it. Twice.
Most people see sunlight and think about how warm it feels. I think about how it can expose dust particles in the air, how it can reflect off a chrome surface and temporarily blind a man if you put him in the right spot at the wrong time. Shadows, angles, reflections—they all tell a story if you pay attention long enough.
And I always pay attention.
The air inside my apartment is still, untouched since last night. I know this because the thin strip of hair placed across my front doorframe hasn't moved. It's the same length I cut it to every week: seven centimeters exactly. Too long and it bends with static, too short and it's invisible even to me. This morning, it's perfect—lying weightless across the seam, undisturbed.
The walls are painted a neutral off-white, the kind of color that swallows memory. The kind of color landlords pick when they want nothing to stand out, nothing to linger.
My furniture is functional, unremarkable. The couch is gray. The chairs are straight-backed. The rug is cheap wool with one frayed corner I have left untouched, because repairing it would change its shape, its edge, its feel under my shoes.
Even the framed photo on the shelf is a lie: a smiling couple on a pier, hair windblown, eyes crinkled. Not me. Not anyone I know. Just a prop I bought for two dollars at a thrift store. Because sometimes, when someone comes into your home, you want them to think you have someone to go back to. That you're normal.
The kettle clicks.
Steam coils upward, white against the pale wall. I take the container from the cupboard, scoop the coffee beans, and place them in the grinder. Eleven grams, no more, no less. The grinder hums for seven seconds, not six, not eight. Any deviation would taste wrong, feel wrong.
The pour-over cone rests above my mug. I tip the kettle, and the water flows in a thin, steady stream, blooming the coffee bed in a rich, even swell. I time the pour: thirty seconds. Not thirty-one. Not twenty-nine. I stir clockwise exactly three times, never counterclockwise. Not because it tastes better. Not because I'm superstitious. But because rituals or you can say routines matter.
Rituals are alarms you don't have to set. If the taste is different, the stir direction different, the time off by even a second, then I know. Something has changed.
I take the first sip at precisely 7:08 a.m., sitting at the table with the mug in my right hand. The blinds are open halfway—no more, no less. That's the exact ratio that lets me see without being seen.
Across the street, the little bakery opens its door. The owner's daughter, mid-twenties, black hair tied into a loose ponytail, steps outside. She puts out the chalkboard sign, crouching slightly as she writes. She spells "croissant" wrong again—double 's'. That's three weeks in a row. Her handwriting slopes slightly to the left, which means she's left-handed. She always smudges the tail of her lowercase g's.
Next to the bakery is a fruit stand. Bananas already look too ripe. Their skins have tiny brown speckles, clustered unevenly, which means they'll soften faster on one side than the other. The vendor, a man in his sixties, will drop the price by noon. He does it every Wednesday. I've never seen him change that schedule, not once. The fruit stand awning is faded green, one side sagging slightly more than the other. The vendor never fixes it—probably because he uses the tilt to drain rainwater off the edge instead of letting it pool.
The street beyond is waking slowly. A delivery truck idles in front of the florist, blocking one lane. The driver jumps out, leaves the door wide open. A jogger in neon shorts passes by, earbuds in, sweat already dampening the collar of his shirt. A cyclist swerves around a pothole, muttering a string of words I can't hear but know by their rhythm.
And beyond that… there she is.
Kana Mori.
She's carrying two brown paper grocery bags. Heavy enough to slow her down, but not heavy enough for her to ask for help. She's stubborn like that. I learned that in the first week.
Her hair is loose today, swaying with each step, catching the sunlight in streaks of auburn. Her jacket—beige, waist-length—is the same one she wore on Tuesday. The right pocket is fraying at the edge. She doesn't know I notice these things. She doesn't know anyone notices these things.
I already know what's in those bags: eggs, milk, and a five-pack of spicy instant ramen. Wednesday morning is her shopping day. Humans are rituals wrapped in skin.
I don't wave. I don't call out. Timing is everything, and right now, my timing says: watch.
She stops briefly at her apartment door, shifting the weight of the bags to her right arm so she can reach the key with her left. The lock sticks—I can tell from the extra half-second it takes before she turns the knob.
The door closes behind her.
I set my mug down exactly one inch from the edge of the table, because that's where it always goes. I've lived in five apartments in the last eight years, and the mug has always been one inch from the edge of the table. Because if it's not… I know someone's been here.
Safety isn't a matter of locks or cameras. It's a matter of preparation.
I wash the mug, dry it, place it back in the cupboard—handle facing east. Then I check the hair across the door frame. Still in place. If it were gone, I'd know.
Should I be the polite, helpful neighbor.
Be the problem solver when something goes wrong.
Or… let's just say This has a much higher body count.
I check the clock. 8:42 a.m. I'll leave in exactly six minutes. That way, when I "run into" Kana outside, it will seem like coincidence. Six minutes is perfect—enough time for her to lock up, get to the lobby, and slow her pace. Too soon, and I look eager. Too late, and the moment is gone.
I finish getting ready, phone in my hand—not because I'm using it, but because people drop their guard around someone who looks distracted. I scroll just enough to seem casual, checking the weather app even though I already know it will be seventy-eight degrees and partly sunny. Precision matters.
The sunlight has shifted now. Thirty-nine degrees.
I step back from the blinds and glance at the hallway mirror. My reflection is bland, unremarkable—perfect camouflage. The way I dress, the way I walk, the expression I wear: neutral. Invisible. People trust someone who appears harmless. I've learned that over the years.
The hallway smells faintly of lemon cleaner. A door opens somewhere to my left—soft footsteps, a faint metallic clink. Someone carrying keys. I listen until the sound fades.
The elevator hums two floors down. I don't use it. Elevators make you wait, and waiting is exposure. I prefer stairs. Predictable pace, no sudden stops, no unexpected passengers.
Outside, the street is fully awake now. The florist arranges tulips in neat rows. The vendor flips the price tags at the fruit stand. The bakery's bell rings twice in thirty seconds—two customers in quick succession.
Kana emerges from building again, this time without the bags. Her hands are free, her pace quicker. She glances at her phone, tilts her head slightly, and changes direction toward the bakery.
I time my steps. Casual but precise.
As I pass a parked car, I use the reflection in its rear window to watch her without turning my head. I note the tension in her shoulders, the rhythm of her steps—five even strides, a pause, then a slightly longer one.
At the exact moment our paths intersect, I shift to the left, brushing her elbow—just enough to seem accidental. The movement is measured, the contact fleeting. Her jacket fabric is rougher than I expected.
She steadies herself without looking at me. Perfect. Right now I'm not worth remembering. not yet.
I continue past her without a word, letting the silence stretch, knowing she'll remember me more than if I'd spoken. People notice accidents. They forget greetings.
Kana disappears into the bakery. I pause at the fruit stand, examining the apples, noting the bruises and skin texture. The vendor greets me with a nod. I give him one back.
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