The final image I had of him was lying in a pool of his own blood. He was critically wounded. How could he be standing right there?
Was my mind playing tricks on me? A phantom conjured by my own guilt?
The man seemed to sense he was being watched. He turned to face the window. Looking at the exact spot where I stood.
Despite the distance, I felt as if something had locked onto me.
He didn't shout. He didn't charge the house. He simply raised his hand in a slow, mocking wave.
And in that hand, he held a small, silver object that glinted sharply in the light.
He tossed the object over the low fence into the garden. It landed on the pristine white snow, a dark mark against the white snow.
Then, he raised an index finger to his lips, making a "Shh" gesture. Before turning his back and dissolving into the fog.
I stood trembling violently. Cold sweat drenched my entire back.
He's here! Regardless of how the hell he survived, he is here right now!
