11:47

October 17 — 11:47 P.M.

The city was best after midnight.

That was what Maria liked about it.

During the day, it was all complete noise, the horns, construction, people shouting into phones, buses coughing smoke onto sidewalks. But after midnight, the city seemed to release this tension.

Rain polished the streets until every traffic light became a smear of red or green across the pavement. Storefronts went dark one by one. The windows of apartment buildings stayed lit like thousands of tiny stars.

Maria stood alone on the subway platform, staring into the abyss of the tunnel.

DELAYED: 14 MINUTES.

“Perfect,” she muttered.

“You say that like you expected anything else.”

She turned.

The man sitting on the bench behind her smiled.

He was maybe twenty-two, maybe twenty-four. Dark hair, dark coat, clean white shirt underneath. The kind of face that looked unfairly composed at eleven forty-seven at night.

Maria raised an eyebrow.

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

“Then that's a bold opening line.”

He laughed.

“Sorry. You just looked like someone who'd appreciate being annoyed by a stranger.”

“Unfortunately, you're right.”

The train announcement crackled overhead.

He stood when the train arrived.

As Maria stepped inside, her coffee slipped from her hand.

He caught it.

“Careful.”

She stared at the cup in his hand, noticing little imperfections.

Then at him.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

He handed it back.

The doors closed.

Neither of them noticed that the train wasn't moving.

Not yet anyway. 

October 21 — 8:13 A.M.

Maria saw him at the coffee shop on the corner of her street, about a half mile.

He was standing near the window, scrolling on his phone, maybe waiting for somone.

She stopped walking.

Slowly, he paused and looked up.

His smile appeared immediately.

Again, his smile seemed to ease her. 

“Three minutes late.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“You're always three minutes late.”

She laughed despite herself.

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“How would you know?”

He shrugged.

“Lucky guess.”

She ordered her coffee.

When she turned around, he was still there.

“I'm mathew” he said.

“Maria.”

“I know that.”

She waited.

He seemed to realize what he'd said.

“I mean—now I know.”

Something about the correction made her smile, hard.

“Right.”

He smiled back.

“See you around, Maria.”

She didn't think much of this interaction.

Except the fact she found herself constantly thinking of him after this interaction.

October 26 — 6:42 P.M.

The bookstore was nearly empty.

Maria was reaching for a novel on the top shelf when another hand reached over her shoulder and pulled it down.

“Looking for this?”

She turned.

Mathew.

She laughed.

“No way.”

“What?”

“You're everywhere it seems.”

“I was about to say the same thing.”

He smirked and his eyes danced around.

He handed her the book.

“Maybe the city's smaller than we think.”

They got coffee afterward.

Then dinner.

Then another coffee because neither of them wanted to leave.

By ten, Maria knew he hated olives, loved movies with no plot, had an older sister who lived three states away, and could never remember the street name his mother lived on.

By ten fifteen, she had decided she liked him, more than she thought.

At 11:03, he walked her home.

At 11:09, he stopped beneath the awning outside her building.

“You're good?” he asked.

“Yeah.” she said breathlessly. 

“Text me when you're upstairs.”

She softly smiled. 

“Okay.”

She went inside.

At 11:11, her phone buzzed.

 Home?

She hummed excitement to herself.

Maria: Home.

Across the street, Matthew put his phone into his coat pocket.

He then walked away.

November 2 — 11:47 P.M.

“You're following me.”

Maria was laughing when she said it.

She slightly squinted her almond eyes.

Mathew looked offended.

“I prefer ‘appearing mysteriously.’”

“You've appeared mysteriously six times.”

“Seven.”

She stopped.

“What?”

He smiled.

“Seven times.”

She stared at him.

He laughed.

“I'm only kidding.” 

He playfully threw his hands up in defense.

“That's odd.”

“Very.”

They were standing on the subway platform again.

The same platform.

The same flickering fluorescent light.

The same musty smell.

11:47 P.M.

Maria noticed the time.

“So this is our time.”

“Our time?”

“Apparently.”

He looked at the clock.

11:47.

Then at her.

“Maybe it is.”

The train slowed to a stop. 

They kissed for the first time in the doorway.

It was soft.

Fairly familiar.

Maria would remember it later as the moment she should have known something was off.

But then it didn’t cross her mind.

November 8 — 7:26 P.M.

Mathew knew things.

Small details?

He knew Maria hated the third floor of the parking garage because the lights flickered.

He knew she didn't like blue cheese.

He knew she always checked her phone twice before leaving anywhere.

He knew she slept with her bedroom door slightly cracked, so that just enough light from the Television crept in.

He knew she took the train instead of the bus but only on Thursday nights.

“You pay attention,” she said one night.

“I'm observant.”

“Obsessive.”

“Maybe.”

He smirked.

She kissed him lightly.

 Though, she didn't see the way his eyes stayed open.

November 14 — 2:17 A.M.

Maria woke up because someone was standing outside her bedroom window.

She sat up.

Her heart hammered.

A shadow moved beyond the glass.

Then disappeared.

She reached for her phone.

Three unread messages.

 You awake?

Bad dream?

It’s OK, go back to sleep.

Maria stared at the screen.

She hadn't told him she'd woken up.

She hadn't told him she'd had a dream.

She looked toward the window again.

Nothing.

She typed:

 How do you know?

The typing bubble appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Finally.

 Lucky guess.

Maria didn't feel the need to go back to sleep.

November 15 — 9:02 A.M.

“Have you ever been to my apartment?”

Mathew peered up from his phone.

“No.”

“You're sure?”

“Why?”

She told him about the shadow.

He listened, intently.

Then he reached across the table and took her hand.

“Maria.”

His voice was gentle.

“Someone is making you feel unsafe.”

“I know.”

“And you think it's me?”

“No.”

She hesitated.

“I don't know.”

For the first time since she'd met him, he didn't smile.

His expression left her with unease.

“I would never hurt you.”

“I know.”

“You don't.”

His fingers tightened around hers.

“I would never hurt you.”

Maria pulled her hand away.

“I believe you.”

However insistent, she didn’t.

November 17 — 4:38 P.M.

She searched Mathew’s name.

Nothing.

No social media.

No old photographs.

No college profile.

No family.

Nothing.

It was as if he had appeared in the city fully formed.

She called him.

He answered on the first ring.

“Hey.”

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Which home?”

Silence.

Then:

“Why?”

Maria swallowed.

“I think I need some space.”

Stilling silence.

“Okay..”

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“I understand.”

She hung up.

At 4:41, someone knocked on her apartment door.

Maria stood in her tracks, like a deer seeing a car.

Three separate knocks.

Slow.

Polite.

She looked through the peephole.

Nobody.

Then her phone buzzed.

 I said okay.

November 18 — 6:04 A.M.

Maria left.

She took one bag, brown her favorite.

Her passport.

Her wallet.

Her phone.

She didn't tell anyone where she was going.

She took the first train out of the city.

For three hours, she watched buildings disappear behind the window.

At 9:17, she finally relaxed.

At 9:19, she noticed the envelope on the seat beside her.

Her name was written across the front.

MARIA.

She hadn't seen anyone put it there.

Inside was a photograph.

Maria waiting in line at the bookstore.

October 26.

6:42 P.M.

On the back, a little hand-written note attached.

If this is what you want. 

Her hands went cold.

Another photograph.

The coffee shop.

October 21.

8:13 A.M.

Another.

The subway.

October 17.

11:47 P.M.

Maria flipped it over.

There was writing on the back.

The first time you glanced over.

Her phone rang.

Unknown number.

She answered.

“Hello?”

His voice.

“Hi.”

Mara couldn't breathe.

“How did you—”

“I told you.”

His voice was slightly amused.

“I like to observe”

She hung up.

The phone rang again.

She turned it off.

Then she noticed something.

There was a final photograph in the envelope.

It wasn't of her.

It was of another girl.

Darker hair.

Red coat.

Standing on a subway platform.

On the back:

SUBJECT 7 — COMPLETED

Maria stared at the word.

Completed.

She turned the photograph over.

On the front, the girl was smiling.

She looked happy.

She looked safe.

She looked like Maria.

November 18 — 11:47 P.M.

The police searched Mathew’s apartment.

There was nothing.

No photographs.

No computer.

No notebooks.

No evidence.

The apartment was almost completely empty.

One chair.

One table.

One bed.

A toothbrush.

Three shirts.

Nothing else.

The detective looked at Maria.

“Are you sure this is the right apartment?”

“Yes.”

“You lived here?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

Maria looked toward the bedroom.

“I just know.”

They found no record of him.

No driver's license.

No bank account.

No employment history.

Nothing.

It was as though he had never existed.

The detective eventually told her that sometimes people who are frightened connect details that aren't connected.

Maria nodded.

She didn't argue.

She knew what she'd seen.

She knew what she'd heard.

And she knew one other thing.

The photographs were gone.

Every single one.

December 3 — 10:31 P.M.

Maria moved to another city.

New apartment.

New job.

New number.

She stopped taking trains.

She stopped drinking coffee in public.

She stopped telling people where she was going.

She learned to sleep with all the lights on, not just the television.

Nothing happened.

Eventually, she started believing she was safe.

Maybe that was the mistake.

The first time she laughed again, she felt ashamed, guilty even.

The first time she went on a date, she happened cried afterward.

The first time she walked home alone without looking behind her, she felt free.

For the first time in weeks, she slept through a whole night.

December 14 — 11:47 P.M.

The girl on the subway platform was named Madisyn.

She was twenty-three.

She appeared to be tired.

She had been working late.

Rain tapped against the station's glass walls.

Her train was delayed.

DELAYED: 14 MINUTES.

She sighed.

“You'd think they'd fix that.”

A man sitting on the bench behind her looked up.

Dark hair.

Dark coat.

Clean white shirt.

He smiled.

“You say that like you expected anything else.”

Madisyn turned around.

“Do I know you?”

“No.”

He stood.

The train lights appeared in the tunnel.

Elise's phone slipped from her grasp.

He caught it.

“Careful now.”

She smiled.

“Hah-thank you.”

He handed it back.

The doors opened.

She stepped inside.

He followed.

Neither of them noticed the tiny black notebook in his coat pocket.

Neither of them saw the page he had been writing on.

At the top was today's date.

December 14.

Underneath:

11:47 P.M. — SUBJECT 8

And beneath that:

First Contact.

He closed the notebook.

The train doors slid shut.

Outside, the city swallowed the station whole.

And somewhere between the tunnels, the darkness, and the thousands of glowing windows above them, he smiled.

Because tomorrow, at exactly 8:13 A.M., he already knew where she would be, what she would wear, and what she would be thinking.