Part 2 – The Night He Knocked

I didn’t see Adrian for a week after that night.
No library visits, no tall shadow by the poetry shelves, no faint silver reflection in the window glass.

I told myself it was fine. That he’d just… moved on. Maybe he’d found another quiet corner somewhere, another night to haunt. But the truth was simpler and more pathetic — I missed him.

Every time I passed the library, I slowed down, pretending to check my phone, my eyes searching for him through the glass. Nothing. Just empty aisles and flickering fluorescent lights.

By the fifth night, I stopped going in altogether.

That’s why, when someone knocked on my apartment door past midnight, I didn’t think of him. Not at first.

The city was half-asleep outside — just rain tapping on windows, the low hum of streetlights. I almost ignored it. But then I heard it again — three soft knocks, deliberate and slow.

I wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and opened the door.

And there he was.

Dripping rain, his black coat clinging to him like ink, silver eyes brighter than ever against the dark.

“Adrian?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, rainwater sliding down his hair, his face unreadable. Then, quietly:
“I shouldn’t be here.”

My throat tightened. “Then why are you?”

“Because I needed to see you.”

Something in the way he said it — careful, restrained — made my heart race. I stepped aside. “Come in.”

He hesitated on the threshold. For a moment, I thought he might refuse. Then, with a deep breath that didn’t sound quite human, he stepped inside.

The room seemed to shift. The shadows deepened, the air felt colder.

He noticed my shiver and looked away. “I told you before,” he said softly. “I’m not what you think I am.”

I folded my arms. “Then tell me what you are.”

His eyes met mine, and for a heartbeat, I thought he might lie again. But instead, he said, “I don’t belong in your world, Lila.”

I waited. He didn’t move, didn’t blink.

“When you saw me that first night,” he continued, “you shouldn’t have been able to.”

That sent a chill down my spine. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled — or maybe it was just the sound of rain hitting the window. “I walk among people, but I’m not meant to be seen. Not until—” He stopped.

“Until what?” I pressed.

His jaw clenched. “Until the moon calls me back.”

I almost laughed, but something in his voice stopped me. He wasn’t joking.

“Adrian,” I said carefully. “You’re talking like—”

“Like I’m not alive?” he finished for me, that faint, sad smile curving his lips. “You’re right.”

The room went still. Even the rain seemed to pause.

I stared at him — pale skin, rain-dark hair, those luminous eyes that seemed to reflect light instead of catch it. I should’ve been terrified. But instead, I felt this strange, aching calm.

He stepped closer, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I wasn’t supposed to meet you. I only go where the moon leads. But that night, you looked right at me — and I couldn’t leave.”

Something inside me cracked a little at that. “So what now?” I asked. “You disappear again?”

His hand lifted — hesitated — then brushed against mine. Still ice cold. Still unreal.

“I don’t know,” he said. “The moon is already changing.”

Outside, clouds shifted. A faint silver light spilled through the window, painting his face in pale glow.

And for the first time, I saw something flicker across his skin — faint lines of light, like cracks in glass.

I reached out instinctively, but he stepped back. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because if you touch me now,” he said, voice trembling, “you’ll see what I really am.”

The light pulsed, and his eyes flared brighter than moonlight.

I wanted to ask a hundred questions, but the words wouldn’t come. The only sound was the rain and my heartbeat.

Then — just like before — he was gone.

No door opened, no sound. Just gone.

I sank to the floor, staring at the space where he’d stood. The room was colder now, but somehow, I could still feel him — like the echo of a breath that never existed.

When I looked out the window, the clouds had cleared. The moon hung full and silver above the city.

And on the fogged glass, faint but visible, were the marks of a hand.
Cold. Translucent.
Pressed against the inside.