Invisible String

Chapter 32 - Sad, Beautiful, Tragic

It felt like the world had stopped. Everything from the garden to the car, to the drive home, and me getting there, standing outside my apartment, staring blankly at the lock, just felt instant. As if it had all happened in one second. I didn't remember anything in particular after I left him there. It was all a blur.

I had my keys, ready in my hand, not sure how they got there. And I'm not sure how long I'd been standing there before my quiet, older neighbor came up to see if I was okay while going home to his apartment.

He started to ask if I'd been locked out until he saw the keys in my hand. "Are you okay, Miss?"

I swiveled my head and looked right through him. He was there, I knew it, but I wasn't taking him in. I had only turned to the sound he made, but then it stopped. So I faced the door again. Still not sure what to do next.

He touched my shoulder, and I barely flinched.

"Miss?" He tried to turn me, but my body was like stone, unpliable. "Here." he grabbed the keys from my hand, and I released them to him easily. He could've been an ax-murderer on the side for all I knew. But I didn't care. "Let me." He sifted through the keys, searching for the one similar to his own I assume. "Here we go," he said while inserting it into the lock and twisting the knob.

The door flung open, and there was my apartment, open wide to the world. Well, really, just to the two of us. But it felt open. And empty.

"There you go, Ma'am," he said, putting the keys back into my hands and closing them tightly together. "Do you need me to call anyone?"

I looked through him again. What was he asking?

I heard him sigh and he shut the door, but he didn't leave. He came back in, led me over to the couch, and sat me down. He grabbed a blanket from the side of the sofa and draped it over my shoulders.

"You must be freezing in those clothes."

He went into my kitchen, made a lot of noise, shutting and opening cabinets, looking for something. Was I being robbed?

I'm not sure how long it took him to come back, but when he did, he had coffee with him. Freshly brewed.

"I'm not sure how you like it, so it's black." He reached out, opened up my hands, took the keys, and set them on the coffee table, then replaced them with the mug of coffee. "So, I should get going now. But... Ma'am, if you're high or something, should I call an ambulance? I'd really rather you didn't die."

I looked up, and for the first time, I did see him. And it hadn't been the first time. We'd run into each other on the elevator and in the halls before. He was in his late fifties, with gray hair and pale blue eyes surrounded by fine wrinkles. He was dressed nicely in a suit and fancy loafers. I'd seen him this way many times before.

"What do you do?"

He turned his head, confused and surprised I'd said something. "I'm sorry?"

"For a living," I said, staring at him.

"I'm a professor at NYU. And you?" he asked, sitting down in the chair kitty-corner from the couch.

"I'm an author." I took a sip of the black coffee and cringed. It was much too bitter for my liking. "Hannah Brink," I said, reaching out to shake his hand.

He nodded and shook it back. "Right, yes, I've heard of you. Or, well, I should say that I've spoken about you with some of my students before. I'm an English professor. James Grant, and I'm pleased to meet you."

"Thank you, me, too. I mean, to meet you, too."

He smiled. "I gathered."

"And, uh, thank you for this. I... I don't know what happened to me." I shook my head and ran my fingers through my hair. It was wet. Had it snowed?