Until we meet again

"I think I know you," a voice says in the half-dark.

I flinch and my dog, Luka, barks sharply, nervously, as if he sees something I don't. The park is almost empty. Streetlights cast dull circles of light onto the wet gravel. A man is sitting on the bench.

"He's wearing a long black leather coat with matching boots and a hat that keeps his face partly in shadow." Everything about him seems deliberately chosen, as if he didn't simply sit down here but was placed.

I walk faster. My breathing quickens. Still, he keeps talking, calm, almost friendly.

"We've met before."

I stop and turn around. My heartbeat pounds immediately in my temples, betraying me.

"I think you're mistaken. I don't know you."

He tilts his head, as if weighing something.

"Maybe you don't recognize me now. But you do know me."

Luka pulls on the leash. His nails scrape over the gravel. Maybe he wants to leave. Maybe he wants this to stop. Maybe he feels what I feel, only faster.

"My dog wants to keep going. Good evening."

The man laughs. A crooked grin, held just a little too long. My stomach tightens.

"Until we meet again," he calls after me.

I pretend not to hear him. As if words carry no weight.

That night I dream of the Grim Reaper, dressed like the man in the park. Not holding a scythe, but empty-handed. He says nothing. He waits.

Christmas is behind me. New Year's Eve stares at me, old-fashioned and tired. The stale smell of fried dough hangs in the streets. Fireworks go off too early, unexpectedly, as if someone couldn't wait. I think of burns. Of pain. Of danger you only notice when it's already too late.

Within a week I see family twice, people I only see on these occasions. They look at me as if they know me, but only the version that belongs to those days. I dress up. It doesn't suit me. It feels artificial. Mandatory cheer among semi-strangers. The only bond is blood. You don't get to choose that. Unfortunately.

I hear myself saying how wonderful the dinner is, while barely registering the taste.

The silence between the two obligatory holidays is both cleansing and suffocating. Nothing happens. The world feels dammed up, as if everything is waiting for a signal that hasn't come yet. A new year, they say. As if time can be commanded.

In the evening I walk the same route again with Luka. In the distance I see a shape on the bench. The same man, I think. Never seen him before. And now he's suddenly there, as if he's always been.

Turn around or keep going? I choose the latter. Luka whines softly, disappointed, but follows.

"I knew I'd see you again tonight."

My heart lodges itself in my throat. Still, I want to know what's happening. Why this is happening.

"I walk my dog here every evening," I say. My voice sounds thin. "So yes, it makes sense you'd run into me again."

"What do you want from me? I've really never seen you before."

That crooked grin again.

"I see you've stopped biting your nails. I didn't expect that."

His voice is neutral, almost casual. As if he's pointing out something as harmless as the weather.

My hand shoots instinctively to my mouth. Too late. My nails are short. Smooth. Neat.

It's not a compliment. It's not an attack either.

It's worse.

Nail-biting isn't a habit you share. It's something that happens at night, unconsciously, until you bleed. Something that only gets worse when no one is watching. I only stopped when I forced myself to see my hands as evidence. Open. Verifiable.

No one knows this. Not when it started. Not how hard it was to stop. And certainly not that I did it to keep myself together.

"How do you--" I begin, but my voice breaks off, as if the word itself doesn't exist.

His crooked grin deepens. No triumph. No mockery. Recognition.

That's the moment I know that answers are dangerous. That every word I speak now could become a door that won't close again.

Luka pulls at the leash. Harder this time. His paws scrape against the gravel. He wants to leave. He wants to leave now.

I let myself be pulled along. My fists clenched, my nail beds white.

I don't bite my nails anymore, I realize. But my body still knows exactly how.

I keep walking. This time he doesn't call after me. The silence that follows weighs more than words.

At night, the same nightmare. One small addition. "You know who I am. Not now, but later."

The next day I can hardly sit still. My thoughts circle like a finger tracing a sore spot you're not supposed to touch. He isn't threatening. Not aggressive. Calm. Indifferent. It's what he implies that matters.

I know him. And he knows about my nail-biting.

Two days left until the end of the year. Days that should be empty, suspended. Instead they fill up with him. With what he knows. With what he might still know.

My intuition whispers advice. A different route. A different time. My curiosity shouts back.

He's there again. Or still there. Apart from that crooked grin, he's motionless, rigid.

"No memories coming back?"

"You mean where I should know you from?"

"Not 'should.' There's no doubt. You will know me. For sure."

Then he adds, "Last year you didn't have Luka yet. Is the dog a replacement for the loss?"

He gives an exaggerated, conspiratorial wink. As if we're jointly keeping quiet about something long since named.

My fists clench on their own. My blood boils.

I keep walking. I don't want to know what he knows. Some wounds only heal as long as you don't reopen them.

"It's just a matter of time."

At home I wander aimlessly through the living room. Everything feels too sharp. Too real. He knows my dog's name. He knows why he's here.

On the last day of the year, no one is sitting on the bench.

I feel disappointed. As if something has been left unfinished.

Luka pulls me closer. Maybe he smells something. I smell nothing.

I see an envelope. My name on it.

Below that, in capital letters:

DO NOT OPEN BEFORE JANUARY 1, 12:00 AM.

Luka and I walk calmly home.