The Unmaking of Brad Monroe Episode 4: Glimpses
The hallway light on the third floor was flickering again, one of those slow, dying pulses like an insect trapped in a jar.
Brad didn’t mind.
It gave the corridor a rhythm, and in the early evening quiet, it kept time with the distant groan of the radiator somewhere below.
He unlocked his door and nudged it open with a shoulder, the warm scent of cinnamon and pipe sealant meeting him like an old, badly behaved dog.
The heat had been on and off all day, and the air inside felt oddly uneven, with pockets of chill clinging to the floorboards while the ceiling warmed too fast.
Brad exhaled through his nose and didn’t bother turning on the overhead light. He walked by feel.
His fingers skimmed the edge of the small dining table, the back of the worn-out chair, the corner of the kitchen counter where the chipped mug waited by the kettle.
Outside, the sun had retreated behind a low ceiling of cloud.
That muted kind of twilight where the whole city seemed to breathe more slowly.
Quiet, but not peaceful.
He glanced toward the window as he filled the kettle, not because of anything specific, just a habit.
The view from his third-floor apartment wasn’t much: a few rooftops, a crooked utility pole, the alley that funneled wind like a throat.
And her…
She was down there again.
Same shape.
Same stillness...
She stood across the street, just beyond the spill of the nearest streetlamp, where shadows folded into themselves.
Not hiding.
Not watching, exactly.
But present...
The way certain birds perch on high fences, not moving, but unmistakably aware.
Brad didn’t react.
He poured the water, clicked on the burner, and let the flame whisper beneath the kettle.
When he left the apartment an hour later, coat buttoned, scarf loose, fingers already stiff with cold, he half-expected her to be gone.
She wasn’t…
The wind had picked up.
Not sharp, but persistent.
The kind that found its way into seams and sleeves. His boots clicked against salted concrete as he walked down the steps and pulled the front door shut behind him.
She was still there, across the street, standing by the old newspaper machine that no one had filled in years.
He turned the corner without looking directly at her.
Just a flick of the eyes.
A tilt of the head.
Like noticing a storefront you didn’t plan to enter.
Two blocks later, he heard footsteps behind him, light but precise.
He slowed at the intersection, paused at the curb beneath a flickering traffic light, and waited, not for the signal, but for her to catch up.
She didn’t.
Not right away.
When she finally came into step beside him, she didn’t speak.
Neither did he.
They stood in silence as a gust of wind pushed a scrap of foil across the street like something alive.
After a moment, Brad spoke, not facing her, just watching the slow rotation of the pedestrian signal.
“You’ve been pacing me for three nights now.”
Her eyes didn’t widen.
She didn’t flinch.
“You don’t walk like someone with nowhere to be,” he added.
Still, she said nothing.
He looked at her, just a glance, brief but weighted.
His tone remained level.
“I don’t know what you are. But I don’t think you’re here to hurt anyone.”
The light changed.
He stepped off the curb and crossed the street.
When he reached the other side, he turned, expecting nothing.
She was gone…
Just wet asphalt and the hum of power lines overhead.
That night, he made two cups of tea instead of one.
The second went cold on the table, untouched.
But he made it again the next night.
And the next…
— It does not end here.
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