Like a rabbit, she would scurry down the narrow lane.
The dim light of the charred lamppost was rather unhelpful.
He saw her walk the path every day.
She never saw him lurking in the shadows.
Day after day, night after night, he went unnoticed.
Made infamous by the newspapers that described him as a predator, a deranged killer, but he was nothing of the kind.
He had begun to liken himself to a ghost.
On a moonless night, when the smoke in the air masked the urban sky, ridding itself of the shining stars, he stepped out of the shadows.
She did not glance in his direction.
He decided to not retreat back into the darkness.
He wiped his sweaty palm on the edge of his crushed shirt before he delicately placed his hand on her right shoulder.
A piercing scream disturbed the stillness of the veins on his forehead.
It was an accident.
He never meant to hurt her; all he wanted was to be noticed.
He breathed again when he found a coin in his pocket, almost smiling at his good fortune.
Putting his signature on his works of art was a practice he had developed over time.
The police named it his ‘calling card’.
Kissing it gently, he wiped the coin on her sleeve, lifting her limp arm, and placed it in her palm before he closed it again with the greatest care.
And then he went on to do what he did best – disappear.


2 Comments Add yours

  1. Amy says:

    I couldn’t refrain from commenting. Very well

    1. ankitagupta says:

      Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy the other works as well 🙂

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