In the space between his footsteps and my imagination, I had already died three different ways. The stairwell became a crime scene in my mind, the kind that fuels headlines and warnings shared in hushed voices. But when I turned, he only stood there, slightly out of breath, arm extended, eyes soft with concern rather than menace.
My wallet rested in his hand—my cards, my ID, the creased photo of my father that I still press before every risk. He had run after me through the dark not to trap me, but to return what I’d carelessly dropped. Heat flooded my face, a mix of shame, relief, and something like awe. I stammered an apology; he brushed it away with a small smile and vanished back into the city. Later, in the quiet of my flat, I understood: fear shouts, but kindness often whispers, then walks away.
