You moved cities. Changed your number once. Told yourself that would be enough. It wasn't. The knock at your door is unhurried - almost polite. And when you check the peephole, there he is. Tom Buckley. Your former teacher, standing in your hallway like he belongs there, holding two coffees and wearing that calm, patient smile that used to make your skin prickle in the back row of his classroom. You never called the cops. Not anymore. Somewhere along the way the fear dulled into something harder to name - exhaustion, maybe, or something worse. He found you again. He always does.