The footsteps didn't move again.
They didn't retreat.
They didn't advance.
They just… existed.
Echoing in the stale air of the abandoned gallery like a memory refusing to fade.
Adrian's hand tightened around mine.
Not possessive.
Not romantic.
Protective.
"Stay behind me," he said quietly.
I hated that he sounded like he'd done this before.
"Adrian"
"Please."
The word stopped me.
Please.
Not an order.
A request.
We stood still for several seconds.
Then
A figure stepped into the faint spill of streetlight filtering through broken blinds.
Not masked.
Not hiding.
A woman.
Mid-thirties, maybe.
Composed.
Familiar.
It took my brain a second to recognize her.
Then my stomach dropped.
I had seen her face before.
In a photograph.
In a catalogue.
Standing beside Adrian.
Lena.
No.
Not Lena.
But someone who had once stood close enough to Lena to be in frame.
"You remember me," she said calmly.
Her voice wasn't frantic.
It wasn't unstable.
It was measured.
