Plot hole

Mondays are always tough. For me, especially. I’m used to mornings starting with the reminder from the alarm, that I live in a city where everything seems the same. I sat in the car, watching the rain streaking down the windshield. Sometimes I think that this rain was the only thing truly alive here. It doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t stop on schedule. It simply is, just like everything else in this city. And just like the rain, there were murders — they happened on schedule. Today, I had to investigate a crime scene in an apartment on the second floor. A woman. Young. Another murder with no apparent motive. Typical for this place. The process was simple: collect the body, fill out the paperwork, inspect the scene. Everything I did was part of a routine I didn’t try to change. Everything always went according to plan. When I entered the building, the dim light from the lamps illuminated the dirty walls, giving everything an air of obscurity. The steps were old, creaky, but nothing out of the ordinary. I climbed to the second floor, where the team was already waiting for me. The apartment was just as it always was. A faint smell of decaying walls, stale air mixing with the scent of yesterday’s rain. The body was in the bathroom. A woman, no older than thirty. No signs of a struggle, no visible wounds. It seemed that death came without fuss. Her face was calm, as if she were sleeping. The body lay straight, as though someone had carefully positioned it. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t like it. I moved closer and examined her more carefully. No obvious injuries. But something about her posture seemed strange. I felt like I had seen her face before. Somewhere, at some point. I couldn’t remember where. I decided to inspect the room. It was a typical apartment: one room, a kitchen, old furniture that hadn’t been replaced in years. On the table was a photograph. The woman in it was young, smiling. It wasn’t surprising, but for some reason, I couldn’t take my eyes off it. She wasn’t looking at the camera; her gaze was directed slightly off to the side, as if she were waiting for someone. Her eyes held my attention, but I continued to look around. In the closet, there were a few old books, an empty desk, a cup left on the shelf. Nothing important. No evidence. But then I noticed a small black note on the coffee table. The note was neatly folded, as if it had been placed there intentionally. I unfolded it and read: "You are not alone." It was strange. No signature, just that odd message. I could have thought it was just a joke, but something inside me twisted uncomfortably. Why here? Why was this note among such ordinary objects? I slipped it into my pocket and continued inspecting the crime scene. The phone didn’t ring, my colleagues were doing their own work. Everything went according to plan. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something. The note kept bothering me, but I knew its significance might be important, or maybe it wasn’t. I always followed the rule: everything in an investigation must be clear, nothing extra. But as soon as I tucked the note into my pocket, I felt the space around me change. The air grew heavier, as if something had brushed against me from behind. After filling out the standard paperwork, I stood up and approached the door. It was just another murder. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than that. No matter how hard I tried to distance myself, something kept pulling me toward this woman, her story. I didn’t know why. I just knew that this murder wasn’t just an accident. Glancing at her face one last time, I felt as if she were watching me, even though her eyes were closed. And something inside me froze for a moment.