Part 72
(Adrian's POV)
The days began to blur together — but for once, that wasn't a bad thing.
Adrian woke with the sun, to the sound of roosters and the faint smell of brewed coffee drifting from the kitchen. His mother's laughter mixed with the radio playing old songs, the kind with soft guitar and gentle voices. It was ordinary, small, human.
And he loved it.
The coffee shop opened early. Locals came in with muddy boots and tired smiles, asking for their "usual." They didn't know who he was, didn't ask.
To them, he was just the quiet barista with kind eyes and careful hands — someone who remembered how they liked their drink, someone who listened.
He wore his mask and cap, not because he feared being seen, but because he liked the simplicity of anonymity. It was his shield, but also his freedom.
He learned to find beauty in the quiet:
The way sunlight slipped through the trees and painted gold lines across the counter.
The sound of milk frothing — soft, steady, almost like music.
The joy of hearing someone laugh because of him, not because of a performance, but a small joke over spilled sugar.
Sometimes, at night, he'd walk down the narrow path that led to the river.
The water was slow there, glassy and calm. Fireflies hovered over it like scattered stars.
He would sit on the wooden bench, pull his cap low, and breathe.
It had been three months since he last saw a camera flash.
Three months since his name trended online.
Three months since Alex's shadow had reached him.
Here, there were no whispers, no crowds, no obsession. Just the rhythm of living — quiet and unremarkable, but full.
His mother often caught him staring at the trees and teased, "You look like you're finally learning how to be alive again."
And maybe he was.
Adrian smiled more now. Laughed sometimes. Slept without nightmares.
The city and its ghosts felt far away — almost unreal.
For the first time, he didn't feel like he was being watched.
And for now, that was everything he needed.