As he stepped out, he couldn’t wave off the thoughts about that note resting in his pocket; it felt like the paper was burning through the fabric. Patting it lightly, he sighed and tried to get some distraction. The only way for it now was wandering around a little more, clearing his head.

  The Prague outside was quiet. Not still, not safe. The kind of quiet that was too aware of itself — like a stage waiting for the curtain to rise.

  He glanced at an old watch on his wrist which he bargained for with his dad when he still lived back at home. Well, not actually bargained — just asked what the brand was, cause the watch looked nice, and his father just took his own off and handed it to him while saying something like “I’ll buy myself new ones’.

  2:45. He still had enough time before 03:33.

  He didn’t take a direct route back, going good on his own decision to clear his mind.

  Inside the notebook in his hand, the Prague map he started at the hotel and then continued in the cafe now spiraled at the edges.

  As he walked up to the Legii Bridge, he paused at the banisters to look out at the river, barely any lights on the other side of it — just one streetlight on, one off, then one on again. Standing there, he watched the ripple moving across the water, a lonely seagull flying by. Watching it gliding through the air, he suddenly heard a voice behind him say, almost casually: “Still not walking. But you’re listening now.”

  He turned around, already knowing what he’d see. Nothing and no one. As he looked, the streetlamps blinked once and stayed on, as if nothing happened.

  Looking up at them for a moment, he huffed quietly and continued on his way, his path weaving near the river, past small churches, glass storefronts and the base of Pet?in Hill where shadows huddled between the lampposts.

  He saw only three people the entire way.

  One guy stared too long at a broken fountain.

  One walked wearing shoes that didn’t match.

  The third just…stood. Right in the center of the sidewalk, smiling at nothing.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  This time, no one spoke to him, no one tried to approach him.

  They all saw him.

  And they all chose not to try.

  He didn’t know why — but he knew it definitely wasn’t because suddenly IHCD and everyone else was lying about the Hallwalkers. The woman from earlier did approach him, tried to engage and hook him up with that chit-chat, until something scared her off. Was it the same with the three he saw now? They looked at him, all three, as he passed by each one, but each one chose to pretend he wasn’t there or wasn’t valuable.

  “Am I seriously getting offended the Hallwalkers don’t want me?” he sighed to himself as he reached the hotel’s back entrance.

  Opening the door quietly, he got in. The lights were mostly off, the night reception probably sleeping at their desk; the security room was empty, Emil probably gone for a walk around. He glanced at the clock on the wall, seeing it was 03:26. Yeah, Emil definitely was on a walk-through.

  He slipped into the stairwell, not turning the lights on, and carefully climbed up in the dark. His apartment — staff housing — was on the second floor in the old part of the building which was cold in a good way. It was that kind of cold which reminded you that you were alone.

  Walking into his room, he took off his coat, started the kettle – all in the darkness, because that allowed to not close the windows – laid the sketchbook on the desk, then placed the note there, right next to the one from the first day. Not moving away, he stared at both papers for a moment, trying to put one and one together but not really succeeding yet.

  Just as he was about to turn and go to the bathroom, he heard footsteps outside the door.

  Slow, even. Soft soles on the carpet.

  They weren’t rushed or stealthy, just passing.

  The hallway didn’t creak, the lock didn’t get fumbled with; however, he still didn’t move, waiting until those steps would fade. Once it was silence again, he came up to the door carefully, placing one hand on it without opening it.

  He knew something he shouldn’t. His apartment was the last on this floor, with no stairwell past him, no passage to the guests’ rooms. There was zero reason for anyone to walk this far.

  Except to check.

  He stepped away from the door, not hearing any sounds now. There were no movements in the hallway, no shuffling, nothing. Just silence.

  He didn’t finish unpacking, didn’t change into home clothes — just dropped into the chair by the desk, staring at the notes in front of him.

  You should be more careful. You almost got spoken to, but then he looked.

  He unfolded the note and slowly ran his finger over the last line, like it might have moved if he pressed hard enough.

  Outside, the city had gone silent again. From his window, Prague’s rooftops huddled together in crooked clusters of red and black. In the far distance, a streetlight flickered twice, then held.

  He closed his eyes, letting out a soft breath just as the kettle clicked from its base, forgotten and cooling now.

  His fingers drummed once against the tabletop — a soft, familiar rhythm. Too familiar.

  But he didn’t notice. Not yet.