Plot hole

After leaving the apartment, I couldn’t shake the strange feeling that lingered. Everything seemed too ordinary, too smooth. I lit a cigarette, standing by the entrance to the building, trying to make sense of what I had seen. Everything was the same as always, but that note… I couldn’t forget it. When I returned to the precinct, I spent several more hours doing the usual routine work: filling out reports, making phone calls, short discussions with colleagues. But somewhere deep in my mind, one thought kept turning over and over — this wasn’t a coincidence. This woman didn’t just die. And the note wasn’t random. I felt as though it was meant for me. Not for the victim, not for the world, but for me. And in that thought, there was something unsettling. By the end of the day, when I found myself back in my chair — the same one I sat in after each investigation — a strange feeling of loneliness washed over me. It wasn’t physical loneliness, more like… metaphysical. I wasn’t sure if it was the result of a long workday, but the thought kept haunting me: I wasn’t alone. Someone was watching every move I made, even if I couldn’t see them. I opened my notebook, the one with the list of cases I was working on. But today, my gaze didn’t fall on it. Instead, it landed on the computer screen. Too many blank lines, too many empty cells in the reports. But one line immediately caught my attention. Not because of its content, but because something about it felt alien. I stood there, staring at the monitor, and suddenly realized that all these lines — they didn’t feel like mine. They didn’t reflect me, they didn’t describe those I investigated. They were just mechanical records. I felt like I had become part of this system, like my own journal no longer belonged to me, and someone else had written their lines in it. “You’re not alone.” The words from the note echoed in my mind. They wouldn’t let me go. I kept staring at the screen, trying to push the thoughts away. But they kept coming back. I started thinking about what would happen if I didn’t follow the standard protocol, if I just began to… feel. That wasn’t normal for me. But the longer I sat there, the clearer it became: those words weren’t just a note on paper. They were a message, addressed to me. And only me. I opened the files from previous investigations, trying to regain my sense of control. But everywhere I looked, it was the same — standard crimes, standard evidence, standard reports. But when I opened the file for the previous murder in this area, I noticed a strange coincidence: the piece of evidence left at the crime scene in that case was similar to what I found in the victim’s apartment. The same type of note, the same words. Yes, it was different, but the essence remained. I kept staring at the screen, and the realization hit me like a cold wind. This wasn’t a coincidence. Someone was leaving these notes. And someone was expecting me to see them. At that moment, I understood I wasn’t just investigating murders. I was part of something much bigger than I could imagine. And the one who was writing these messages might know me better than I knew myself. I stood up from the desk and walked to the window. A light rain began tapping against the glass again. I saw my reflection in the window. I was alone. Or so I thought. I could keep investigating as always, but now everything had changed. Every move, every glance, every step could be noticed. I wasn’t sure who or what was watching me. But I was certain of one thing: I needed to find out. At that moment, I realized — I was falling in love with the process. Not with the investigation, but with everything around me. With this world, which seemed more unreal and more dangerous by the minute. I wasn’t alone. And someone else knew that. Someone was watching, and I felt that it was more than just observation.