I opened the drawer and saw the familiar cigarette pack. I'd always kept them scattered around my apartment, hidden in drawers and corners like a well-kept secret. I took out the lighter from my pen stand, where it had always sat, forgotten but secure. The cigarettes whispered their soft, tantalizing promises, their familiarity a silent call.
I lit one, and as the flame flickered, it felt like I had ignited something deeper within—my desires, my frustrations, the things I kept buried. They were my sweethearts, in a way, my only companions when everything else felt too far out of reach. Sweethearts to my very essence, something that belonged to me and me alone.
As the smoke curled upward, my thoughts drifted back to my family, as they always did. What were they doing for Christmas? How had they celebrated without me?
How was my young sister's baby? Was she healthy? I wondered if she had grown, if she was walking, talking, becoming the child she was meant to be.
And my big sister—was she still alone? Still without a husband, or had she found someone new to fill the void?
I exhaled a heavy plume of smoke, letting it hang in the air, thickening the space around me. The apartment seemed to darken with each breath, the walls turning to charcoal as I inhaled and exhaled.
Lung cancer? I scoffed, the thought barely registering as I reached for another drag.
But the irritation wasn't just about the smoke or the loneliness. There was something else—an unease, a trail of persistence knocking at the edges of my thoughts. My nerves were fraying, one bulging nerve pulsing with a rhythmic throb, as though my body itself was protesting my mental state.
It was a familiar sensation—irritation turning into something more. But I couldn't figure out what.
"What is it?" I asked, my voice sharp, almost startling her.
"Mister Hoff...man?" The voice that answered was fragile, weak. I had probably frightened her, though I didn't mean to.
"Yes, madame," I responded, my tone suddenly smooth, sugarcoating the roughness from before. A deliberate shift, as though to soften the air after my abruptness.
I crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, its remnants curling into the air. The smell lingered as I stood and moved swiftly across the room, the sharp scrape of my shoes on the floor breaking the silence.
But then, something nagged at me. How did she know my name? The question slipped into my mind like a shadow—quiet but persistent. I hadn't recognized her voice, and yet, she addressed me as if she knew me, as if she had been expecting me.
I paused, uncertainty crawling up my spine. How much did she know?
I peered through the peephole, my eyes narrowing as I scanned the woman on the other side of the door. She stood there, a small child clinging to her side—Alex Dawson, the little boy I had seen around before. No stranger to my gaze, but still, a reason for caution.
The woman held a small, delicate box in her hands, probably filled with sweets or something else innocuous. She looked harmless enough—soft features, an air of uncertainty, as if she didn't quite belong at my door. But appearances were deceiving, weren't they?
I stood still for a moment, considering. The box was unassuming, but the situation wasn't. There was no reason for me to let my guard down. Not now, not when my instincts told me something wasn't quite right.
I exhaled slowly, shifting my stance. As a martial artist, I was always attuned to the smallest movements, the slightest shift in atmosphere. As a detective, that alertness was sharpened to a razor's edge. I had been trained to notice things others overlooked, to anticipate threats before they materialized.
With my hands steady, I gripped the handle of the door and turned it, but only slightly. A crack. Just enough to assess. The last thing I wanted was to be caught off guard. My pulse quickened, the years of training kicking in.
Something was off. And I needed to figure out what.
"I am Mrs. Clara Dawson," she said, her voice soft and polite, though there was a nervousness there, a hesitation in the way she spoke. "I'm new here, so I thought I'd introduce myself and distribute some sweets to the neighbors."
I glanced down at the small box in her hands, still unsure of the situation. This building, the one I lived in, was filled with people like me—working-class, self-absorbed, and often too busy to even glance at their neighbors. It was the kind of place where people kept to themselves, never bothering to make small talk, never bothering to care.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to figure her out. It was strange to see someone so willing to reach out in this cold, indifferent environment.
"How did you know my name?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
She looked up at me, a little taken aback but not nervous enough to back down. "The previous tenant told me," she replied. "He said you were Mr. Hoffman, that you lived here alone... I just thought it would be nice to come by and give you something. Some sweets, as a small gesture. I'm sorry, Mr. Hoffman, if I've invaded your space."
I glanced at her apartment number—242—next to mine, 243. I never really paid much attention to the tenants here. The guy who lived next door? Never seen his face, but we exchanged a few nods now and then. Probably just another factory worker, like most of the others in the building. We kept to ourselves.
But Mrs. Clara Dawson was different. Her apology felt sincere, but the way she spoke, the way she seemed to know more than a new neighbor should—something about it raised the hairs on the back of my neck. It wasn't just the sweets, though it was a nice gesture. No, it was the underlying knowledge, the way she looked at me, as if she understood more than she let on. A subtle hint of something hidden, of intentions I couldn't yet decipher.
I stood there, holding the door just a crack, studying her. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this than a simple neighborly greeting. But maybe, I thought, I was just overanalyzing things. I had a tendency to do that—over-scrutinize every detail, every little thing. It was a habit that often led me down unnecessary paths.
She handed me the small box with a nervous smile. I could see it now—her discomfort, like she could sense the weight of my gaze. She was probably wondering why I hadn't smiled back, why my expression was so unreadable.
Her son, Alex, waved at me cheerfully, his small hand a bright spot in the dim hallway. "Merry Christmas again, Uncle."
"Merry Christmas," I returned, my voice softer than before, though my thoughts remained guarded.
I didn't have any sweets to offer him. I never did. But I did have money, and that was the next best thing, wasn't it?
I reached into my pocket, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and handed it to the boy. "Here, you can get some sweets with this," I said, watching his eyes widen in surprise.
His smile stretched wider as he took the bill, and he waved again before scampering off. "Thank you, Mister Hoffman!" he called, his voice bright with excitement.
I sighed and opened the box she'd given me. Inside were gingerbread cookies, neatly arranged. The scent hit me immediately—a sweet, comforting aroma. I picked one up, the edges dusted with powdered sugar, and took a slow bite. It was good—better than I expected.
But as I chewed, my thoughts lingered on the strange encounter. Mrs. Dawson's smile, her nervousness, Alex's familiarity with me—it all felt too... calculated, somehow.
I glanced back at her, still standing there, waiting for my response. I couldn't help but wonder: What exactly was she hoping for from me?