Questions are dangerous. Not because they demand answers… but because they expose the ones you've been avoiding. I looked at her.
"Why I was there?" I repeated.
She nodded.
Not impatiently.
Not insistently.
Just… certain.
As if she already knew the answer and was waiting for me to admit it.
"I was there because she needed me," I said.
Simple.
Logical.
Acceptable.
Anna didn't react.
She just watched me.
And that was enough to make it feel wrong.
"Was she the only one who needed you?" she asked.
I frowned.
"What does that mean?"
She leaned back slightly, her fingers resting on the edges of the book like she was holding onto something invisible.
"People don't go places just because they're needed," she said. "They go because something in them responds."
I stayed silent.
Because she wasn't wrong.
And that's always uncomfortable.
"So what responded?" she asked.
I exhaled slowly.
"I don't know."
Lie.
Half-lie.
Something in between.
She smiled faintly.
"Of course you do."
Silence settled between us again.
But this time, it wasn't calm.
It was… intrusive.
Like it was trying to pull something out of me.
"I saw someone," I said finally.
Her eyes didn't widen.
Didn't shift.
She just listened.
"A figure," I continued. "Watching from a distance. Then gone."
"And you're sure it wasn't your mind?" she asked.
"I am."
Confidence without proof.
But sometimes, certainty doesn't need evidence.
It just needs instinct.
"And then?" she asked.
"I found a note."
That got her attention.
Not visibly.
But subtly.
The way her fingers tightened just slightly on the page.
"What did it say?"
I held her gaze.
"You're late, Harry."
For the first time—
something changed.
Not shock.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Small.
Controlled.
But there.
"You don't seem surprised," I said.
"I'm not," she replied.
"Why?"
She looked down at the book for a moment.
Then back at me.
"Because that doesn't sound like a threat," she said.
"It isn't," I agreed. "It's worse."
She tilted her head slightly.
"How?"
"It means they expected me."
Understanding flickered in her eyes.
"Or," she said quietly, "it means they've been waiting longer than you think."
That didn't sit well.
Because it felt… possible.
Too possible.
"You think this started before last night?" I asked.
She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she asked, "When did you first feel like something was off?"
I thought about it.
Not just the night.
Not just the note.
Earlier.
Before all of that.
Moments that didn't make sense back then… but now felt connected.
"I don't know," I said.
She nodded slowly.
"Exactly."
"That's not helpful."
"It's not supposed to be," she said. "Truth rarely is."
I leaned forward slightly.
"Then what is it supposed to be?"
She held my gaze.
"Uncomfortable."
That, at least, made sense.
"Do you think I'm being watched?" I asked.
She didn't hesitate.
"Yes."
The certainty in her voice was unsettling.
"By who?"
She shook her head.
"That's the wrong question again."
I almost laughed.
"Then what's the right one this time?"
She closed the book gently.
The sound echoed more than it should have.
"Why you're worth watching," she said.
Silence.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
I leaned back slowly.
"That sounds like something a narcissist would enjoy hearing."
"It's not about ego," she replied. "It's about significance."
"Same thing."
"No," she said calmly. "Ego is what you think you are. Significance is what you actually affect."
I didn't respond.
Because that difference… wasn't as small as I wanted it to be.
"You think I'm significant?" I asked.
"I think you're involved," she said.
"That's not the same thing."
"It doesn't have to be."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
More deliberate.
"You're not telling me something," I said.
She smiled slightly.
"Neither are you."
Fair.
But not equal.
"Have you ever felt like you're part of something before it even begins?" she asked suddenly.
I frowned.
"That doesn't make sense."
"It will," she said.
"Eventually."
I studied her.
Carefully.
Because there was something about the way she spoke.
Not mysterious.
Not dramatic.
Just… aware.
Like she was standing one step ahead of the moment.
"Anna," I said slowly, "what are you trying to say?"
She stood up.
Just like that.
Conversation over.
Or maybe just paused.
"Nothing," she said.
"That's the problem," I replied. "You never say anything directly."
She picked up her book.
Held it close.
"Some things lose meaning when they're explained," she said.
"That's convenient."
"It's true."
She looked at me one last time.
And for a moment—
her expression softened.
Not distant.
Not unreadable.
Just… human.
"Be careful, Harry," she said.
Not like a warning.
Not like fear.
Like certainty.
And then she walked away.
I didn't stop her.
Didn't call her back.
Because something told me—
she had already said more than enough.
I sat there for a while.
Alone.
But not really.
Because her words stayed.
Echoing.
Repeating.
Reshaping.
Why you were there.
Why you're worth watching.
Be careful.
Questions.
Answers.
Or maybe—
something else entirely.
I looked down at the book in front of me.
Crime and Punishment.
A story about a man who thought he understood everything.
Until he didn't.
I closed it slowly.
Because suddenly—
it didn't feel like fiction anymore.
It felt like instruction.
And somewhere between the lines…
I had a feeling—
this wasn't just someone watching me.
This was someone…
waiting for me to understand why.