The Stranger Who Knew My Secrets

I’ve always had trouble sleeping.

While others find peace in their dreams, I find clarity in silence. That’s why I often walk at night — headphones off, phone in my pocket, just letting the empty streets speak to me. But on that night, the silence didn’t feel peaceful. It felt like the city was holding its breath.

The air was colder than usual. My steps echoed louder. I took the long route through Old Cross Lane, a street filled with shuttered shops and hollowed buildings, remnants of a forgotten time. One of those buildings — a crumbling bookstore with broken glass in its windows — always gave me the creeps.

As I passed it, someone spoke.

“You still think about her, don’t you?”

I stopped.

There was a man under the flickering streetlamp. Tall, unmoving. His coat was long and dark, like something out of a noir film. But his face… I couldn’t see it. The light cast everything above his collar in shadow. Still, I felt his eyes — like they were inside my mind.

“I’m sorry?” I managed to say, pretending not to panic.

He tilted his head, slightly.

“Amina,” he said. “You still see her in your dreams.”

I froze.

Amina.

The name struck something buried deep in me. She had been a friend — someone I had grown close to in university. Maybe more than a friend. She had died in a car crash three years ago.

And yes… I still saw her.

In my dreams.

Crying. Reaching out.

Saying something I could never hear.

But how could this stranger know?

“Who the hell are you?” I demanded.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “I’m here to remind you.”

Of what, I wanted to ask — but my throat tightened.

“She waited for you,” he said. “You were outside the hospital. You could’ve gone in.”

My stomach dropped.

Because that was true.

I had gone to the hospital the night she died. I stood outside the entrance, watching the lights above the emergency room flicker. But I never walked in. I couldn’t. I turned around. I went home. I told myself she wouldn’t want to see me like that. That it was better I remember her as she was.

But I lied.

And I had regretted it every day since.

“She was awake,” the man said, his voice softer now. “She called your name.”

Tears welled in my eyes.

“You don’t know me,” I snapped. “You’re just—just some freak trying to mess with my head.”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move.

Instead, he spoke again. And this time, what he said chilled me to the bone.

“The last message you wrote but never sent… the one you deleted and retyped five times.”

“The notebook you buried under your bed. Page 47. The one with the words scratched out.”

“The voice that whispers to you right before you fall asleep. That’s not guilt. That’s her.”

I staggered back.

“Stop,” I whispered.

“You buried her memory. But she never buried you.”

“She forgives you… but now, you have to face her.”

I blinked. A cold wind cut across the street, and the flickering streetlight buzzed. When I looked up again — he was gone.

Just like that.

No footsteps.

No sound.

No shadow turning a corner.

Gone.

The Next Morning

I woke to find a voice message on my phone. No number. No contact name. Just a gray bubble.

I hesitated — and played it.

It was her voice.

Amina’s.

“I forgive you,” she said, her tone slow, broken. “But now… you’ll never be alone again.”

The message stopped. I couldn’t breathe.

Since then, strange things have been happening.

I see him — the man — at random places. In reflections, on crowded streets, in the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth. He never moves. He just watches.

Sometimes I see her too — Amina.

Not like in the dreams.

She’s more... real now.

Sometimes I hear her humming the old song we used to sing in class. Sometimes I see words appear on fogged glass — my name, written in shaky fingers.

At night, I don’t sleep anymore.

Not because of the dreams.

Because the silence is gone.

Someone — or something — is always there.

Waiting.