Man of My Heart

The moment I stepped off the train and into the cool Chicago air, a shiver ran down my spine. The city was alive-too alive. Streetlights flickered in the fading evening light, illuminating the busy sidewalks where businessmen hurried past, laughter spilled from a nearby bar, and the faint scent of roasted chestnuts lingered in the air. Yet, beneath the surface, something felt... off. I pulled my coat tighter around me and shifted my overnight bag higher onto my shoulder. I wasn't here for sightseeing.

I was here because my mother, Emily Cruz, practically forced me to attend a book club event in her place. The thought made me sigh. "Mia, it's important to keep connections alive," she had said. "You never know when you'll need them." As the owner of Cruz's Bookstore-one of New Orleans' oldest independent bookstores-my mother was obsessed with building literary networks. I, on the other hand, had no such ambitions. I just wanted to survive the night and catch my flight home in the morning. The bed and breakfast where I was staying was tucked into a quieter part of town, away from the bustling nightlife. When I arrived, the dimly lit street was unsettlingly still. No traffic, no pedestrians-just the eerie hum of a flickering streetlamp overhead. I pushed open the old wooden door and stepped inside. The scent of rosewater and aged wood greeted me. Behind the front desk sat an elderly woman with silver curls pinned neatly atop her head. Her sharp blue eyes studied me over the rim of her glasses. "You must be Miss Cruz," she said with a knowing smile. I nodded, handing over my ID. She slid a key across the counter. "Room 3. Breakfast is served at seven, if you're up early enough. And... lock your windows." That last part made me pause. "Excuse me?" Her expression remained pleasant, but there was a warning beneath it. "Some folks don't respect boundaries in this city." A chill ran through me. "Right. Thanks." Taking the key, I made my way down the narrow hallway to my room. The old wooden floor creaked beneath my boots. My door was at the very end of the hall, next to a dusty painting of a woman in Victorian clothing. Her painted eyes followed me as I unlocked the door. Inside, the room was small but cozy. The faded yellow walls gave it an aged charm, and the scent of rosewater was stronger here. A ceiling fan hummed softly overhead, its blades slightly loose, creating an almost rhythmic tap... tap... tap. I set my bag down and walked toward the window. The moment I pulled back the curtain, a gust of cold wind slipped through a slight gap in the glass. The window latch was broken. I frowned. Did the old woman forget to mention that? I glanced outside. Nothing but empty trees swaying against the darkening sky. No streetlights. No signs of life. Just an unsettling, endless stretch of black. Shaking off the unease, I turned back to my phone. One hour until the book club meeting. Enough time for coffee. The streets were livelier as I walked toward a small café a few blocks from the meeting venue. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air as I stepped inside. The place had an old-fashioned charm-wooden counters, framed black-and-white photos on the walls, and a family tree chart hanging near the entrance. I ordered a black coffee with extra milk and sugar, then found a seat by the window. The street outside was busier now, people weaving in and out of shops, couples laughing, a street musician strumming a slow melody on his guitar. Yet, as I stirred my drink, I felt it again. That creeping sensation of being watched. I casually glanced around. The café was calm-baristas chatting behind the counter, customers absorbed in their books or laptops. No one was paying attention to me. And yet... My gaze drifted outside. Among the moving crowd, one figure stood still. A man. Dressed in black, leaning against a lamppost across the street. His face was obscured by the shadows, but something about the way he stood-composed, calculating-made my stomach tighten. Then, just as suddenly as I noticed him, he disappeared.

 A passing bus blocked my view for barely a second, and when it was gone, so was he. I swallowed hard and turned back to my coffee. It's nothing. Just your imagination. But deep down, I wasn't convinced. The book club was hosted at a small event hall lined with posters of famous authors and upcoming literary festivals. A crowd of about twenty people gathered, chatting excitedly over wine and hors d'oeuvres. I kept to myself, listening more than speaking. When my turn for introductions came, I cleared my throat. "Um, my name is Mia Cruz. I'm here on behalf of my mother, Emily Cruz. She owns Cruz's Bookstore in New Orleans."

 A few people murmured in recognition. One woman, a redhead in her forties, smiled at me. "Your mother is wonderful. I used to visit her shop years ago." I nodded politely, but my mind was elsewhere. I still felt watched. But that was ridiculous, right? The meeting continued with discussions about historical fiction, new book releases, and publishing trends. I tried to focus, but the nagging unease wouldn't leave. When the meeting finally ended, I was the first to slip out the door. I hailed a cab, keeping my head down, avoiding unnecessary glances. The night air felt heavier, charged with something unspoken, but I pushed the paranoia away. It was just my mind playing tricks on me. Big cities had that effect-their energy lingering long after you stepped away from the crowds. By the time I reached the bed and breakfast, my nerves had settled-just paranoia, nothing more. I forced myself to breathe normally as I stepped inside, nodding briefly to the old woman at the desk. She gave me a small, knowing smile, her hands folded neatly in front of her. "You locked your window, didn't you?" she asked.