Take a breath

Intake of breath. Count to five. Slowly let it out through your nose. Repeat. In. Out. In.

Click.

Click.

That's new. You turn to look over your shoulder.

It's nearly one in the morning, and the street is always empty by now. You stayed late at the records office in hopes of finishing the last box of the death certificates, and now your shoes are the loudest thing for blocks. Nobody else is here. Nobody is ever here. Rules are set in place for a reason. No one out after midnight. You knew it. Now you're living the why of it.

Click.

Click.

You spin, trying to pin down the source, but are left with empty air and eerie silence from everything but your shoes. Suddenly, a shift as you shift. Movement at the edge of your vision, far down the street, a figure stands in the dark. Tall. Broad. Alone. The clicking is coming from them. You step. They step. You walk faster.

Click.

Click.

You track them in the windows of the parked cars. Closer. Each time the clicking lands, it feels like knuckles on the door. Intake. Rest. Count to five. You lose the count at three.

Click.

You still. You didn't move. Whipping your body around to the figure, they are closer now. You stopped. They stopped. Your hand rises to tug your coat closed, and theirs rises too. Slower. Jerking. Like a bad connection. Hand up. Pulled forward. You test it with a few quick steps. They follow with the same lag.

Like a mirror, you think. A fogged-up one, murky in the looking glass, but still there. Still seen.

You step off the curb and cross. The clicking stops again. You can't tell whether that's better or not.

You turn. Nothing. Only your own shoes on the pavement and the pit digging into your ribs. A helicopter whirls overhead as the spotlight lights up the path in front of you.

Adjust. Shift away. Don't get caught. You have four blocks to get to. Four more and you're safe. Trudging forward, you march out of the light ahead and further into the alley that cuts the walk down by half. You hate this alleyway. All things get lost in there, and you know that it's not just hypothetical.

Keys in hand. Legs move faster on the slick pavement. Only your movement. Only one solo click of shoes beating down on the concrete. Maybe you were wrong?

Count the steps to the landing. Seconds away. You see the light of your steps up the brownstone right there. A shimmering light pans to the side and takes your concentration off the trudge ahead.

Every single window in the building across the street is covered from the inside. Brown paper, taped at the edges, neat as bandages. You walked this street for six years, and not once did you remember the paper on the windows. You would remember paper on the windows, right?

Still, you don't slow after that. You take off running. Heels pounding further into the pavement under you. Get to the brownstone. Unlock the door. Get inside. Lock the door.

Home.

The word comes on its own, and you can't understand why home doesn't look like home now. Just a little more murky. A little less shiny.

Same building. Same number. Same door. You slide your key in and engage the lock on the first try. That somehow feels worse. It sticks, usually. Except for tonight.

Quickly opening the door, you step in and lock it behind you. Kick off your shoes and move towards the light switch.

"Don't turn on the light."

A man sits at your kitchen table. You've never seen him before. Something in his hand. But his voice doesn't give him away. Just that he isn't surprised that you've made it.

"They come to the glass when it's bright," he says. Tapping the something in his hand on the table in a rhythmic pattern.

"Who?" You say as you try to swallow the nerves lodged in your throat.

The man tips his head towards the window. Paper, taped at the edges. At the bottom corner, one strip has been peeled back by a finger's width, and through the gap you can see the street, the same street you were just looking at before you ran up the stairs.

As you crossed the room and bent down to look through that tear in the paper, you saw it. The figure is standing under the lamp in front of your building. Tall. Broad. Alone. A muddled outline of a person. Clothing like the one you're wearing. Looking up at you, but the moment you see them, it changes.

It. No, not an it. You. It's you. Under that very light. Holding the very keys you have in your pocket.

Your eyes turn to the man at the table. Maybe a silent question.

"It's on the other side," He says quietly, still in place. "Where you were. You came through somewhere between the fourth and fifth house. Most people would know. I don't think you can tell, right?"

"Came through?" You ask. Perplexed.

Your eyes dart back down the street as best you can with the small strip torn away, and you shake your head. What is this man talking about?

A shimmer. You see that. You watch as yourself steps right through the space between and becomes less muddled and more sharp. More a part of this world.

The man at the table sighs. "You really should have waited 'til morning."

He kicks up his feet and leans back as he watches you watch yourself edge closer to the building. Keys in hand. No knock required. Just a slide of the key and a twist as not-you walks right in.

"Sorry, mate." The man says. Then you hear it.

Click.

Click.

A breath behind you.

You close your eyes and start counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

You lose count at three.