Ethan slept badly.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the man beneath the streetlight.
Standing there.
Looking up.
Waiting.
By morning, he was already annoyed with himself.
The dream was one thing.
The figure outside his apartment was another.
But neither proved anything.
People imagined things all the time.
Especially when they were tired.
That was the reasonable explanation.
So he decided to stop thinking about it.
Unfortunately, his brain had other plans.
---
During lunch break, Ethan sat alone near the back of the school library.
A history textbook lay open in front of him.
He hadn't read a single page.
Instead, he was staring at a search bar.
For nearly five minutes.
Finally, he typed:
People seeing the same stranger repeatedly
Hundreds of results appeared.
Most were useless.
Psychology articles.
Forums.
Urban legends.
Paranoia discussions.
Nothing convincing.
He tried again.
Dreaming about a person before meeting them
Still nothing.
Then:
Seeing someone who disappears when you look away
The results became even worse.
Ghost stories.
Conspiracy theories.
Clickbait videos.
A thread titled Shadow People Are Watching Us.
Ethan closed it immediately.
"Great."
Now he felt stupid.
He locked his phone and leaned back in his chair.
The logical answer remained the same.
Coincidence.
Stress.
Lack of sleep.
End of story.
Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.
Not dangerous.
Just...
Wrong.
Like finding a typo in a familiar book.
Small.
But impossible to ignore once noticed.
---
The final bell rang.
Students flooded into the hallways.
Ethan packed his bag and headed home.
This time he deliberately avoided looking at Platform Three.
The train arrived.
People got on.
People got off.
Everything felt ordinary.
Until the train stopped between stations.
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then stabilized.
A collective groan spread through the carriage.
"Not again."
"Seriously?"
"We'll be stuck here forever."
The usual complaints.
A few people pulled out phones.
Others stared through the windows.
Ethan glanced outside.
Only darkness greeted him.
The train sat inside a tunnel.
Nothing unusual.
Then he noticed something.
A reflection.
Not outside.
Inside the glass.
He froze.
For a split second, another face appeared beside his own reflection.
Pale.
Expressionless.
Watching him.
Ethan spun around.
Nobody.
Just tired commuters.
A woman carrying groceries.
A student sleeping against the window.
An elderly man reading a newspaper.
No black coat.
No pale face.
Nothing.
His pulse quickened.
When he looked back at the window, only his own reflection remained.
The train resumed moving moments later.
The passengers quickly forgot the delay.
Ethan couldn't.
---
That evening, rain fell across the city.
Not a storm.
Just a steady drizzle.
The sidewalks glistened beneath streetlights.
People hurried home with umbrellas.
Ethan stopped by a convenience store to buy milk.
As he approached the refrigerator section, something caught his eye.
A young employee was talking to an older coworker.
"...happened again last night."
"What happened?"
"My grandmother."
The younger worker lowered his voice.
"She keeps saying somebody stands outside her apartment."
The older man laughed.
"Another ghost story?"
"That's the weird thing."
The younger employee scratched his head.
"She doesn't think it's a ghost."
"What does she think it is?"
"I don't know."
He hesitated.
"She says it's the same man every time."
Ethan stopped walking.
The conversation continued.
"Old people imagine things."
"Probably."
"How old is she?"
"Seventy-eight."
"Then there you go."
Both workers laughed and returned to stocking shelves.
Ethan stood there for several seconds.
His stomach tightened.
It could be a coincidence.
Of course it could.
There were millions of people in the city.
Thousands probably claimed to see strange things every day.
Yet the timing bothered him.
The details bothered him.
The same man.
Again and again.
---
Back home, Ethan sat at his desk.
The rain tapped softly against the window.
His homework remained untouched.
Instead, he opened a local community forum.
The site was mostly used for neighborhood complaints.
Lost pets.
Broken streetlights.
Parking disputes.
Nothing exciting.
Then he searched a single phrase.
Strange man.
Hundreds of unrelated posts appeared.
He nearly gave up.
Then one thread caught his attention.
Anyone else seeing someone standing near the old station?
The post was three days old.
Only six replies.
Ethan opened it.
The original message read:
«Saw a guy standing near Platform Three around midnight. Thought he was homeless at first.
Went back the next evening and he was there again.
Same place.
Same clothes.»
The replies were mixed.
Some people joked.
Others called the poster crazy.
One user claimed to have seen the same thing.
Another said station security found nobody.
The thread ended there.
No explanation.
No follow-up.
Nothing.
Ethan stared at the screen.
For the first time since all this started, he felt a genuine sense of unease.
Not fear.
Just the realization that he might not be imagining everything.
Someone else had seen him.
Or thought they had.
---
That night, Ethan couldn't focus on anything.
Around midnight he finally gave up and turned off his computer.
Before going to bed, he walked to the window.
The street below was empty.
A few parked cars.
A closed bakery.
A flickering streetlamp.
No mysterious figures.
No black coat.
Nothing.
He almost laughed at himself.
Maybe tomorrow everything would feel ridiculous.
Maybe this whole thing would become a funny story.
As he reached for the curtains, movement caught his eye.
A person was standing at the far end of the street.
Nearly hidden by the darkness.
Too distant to make out clearly.
The figure didn't move.
Didn't walk.
Didn't look around.
Just stood there.
Ethan narrowed his eyes.
Trying to get a better look.
A car passed between them.
Its headlights briefly illuminated the road.
When the car was gone, the figure had vanished.
This time, Ethan didn't tell himself it was stress.
This time, he didn't blame lack of sleep.
Instead, he slowly stepped away from the window.
And for the first time, he locked it.
Even though he lived on the fourth floor.