Page 129 of Mine To Hunt

"My parents saw what it was doing to me. I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating properly. They insisted I move back home."

"And you agreed?"

"I resisted at first." She admits. "I did not want to give him the satisfaction of driving me out. But eventually, survival felt more important than pride."

"And the messages stopped after you left?" I ask. "Just like that?"

She nods slowly. "Stopped completely. As if I had never existed to him."

"Stopped completely?" I repeat. "That must have been… confusing."

"It was worse than confusing." She says quietly. "It was disorienting. I did not know if it meant he had moved on… or if he was simply waiting."

The room falls silent again. After a moment, she leans back slightly, her posture shifting from memory to resolve.

"It was hell." She says. "But I kept one thing from that time that might help you."

Before I can respond, she stands and leaves the room. I hear a drawer opening somewhere down the hallway. The faint rustle of paper. My pulse quickens.

When she returns, she is holding a small envelope.

She sits down and opens it carefully, almost ceremonially.

"I kept this because it was the closest I ever got to knowing who he was."

"What is it?" I ask. "How did you get it?"

"He slipped up once." She explains. "He sent me a photo of myself inside a store. I was near the front window. In the reflection of the glass, you could faintly see him holding the phone."

She slides the photograph out.

"It was subtle. Almost invisible. But a friend enhanced it for me. Cross-referenced it with CCTV footage from the street outside my campus."

"And they found someone?" I ask.

"They identified a suspect." She says carefully. "A man who had been lingering around the area repeatedly. He denied everything. There was not enough evidence to charge him."

Her voice grows tighter. "But they warned him. And for a while, he disappeared."

She hands me the photograph. I take it with trembling fingers. The image is grainy but clear enough. A storefront window. My reflection. No, hers, captured mid-step. And behind her, in the glass, the faint outline of a man in a hoodie.

His face partially visible. Sharp jawline. Dark eyes. Something about the angle of his head.

"Mily…" My voice barely works.

"What is it?" She asks, leaning forward.

I cannot answer immediately. My vision narrows as I stare at the image, my brain scrambling to place him, searching classrooms, offices, cafés, streets.

"You recognize him?" She asks, her voice sharpening again. Not panicked, but alert.

I shake my head slowly.

"No." I say, my throat dry. "I don’t."

Her expression shifts. Confusion first, then concern. "You don’t know him?"

"I’ve never seen him before." I murmur, staring at the photograph as if it might rearrange itself into something familiar. "Not at work. Not at school. Not anywhere I can remember."