Not me

Basement. It smelled of dust and laundry detergent.

She sat on the floor, her back against the cold wall. A dull buzz filled her head.

Upstairs, a door creaked; a man came down. He was carrying a plastic tray with a bowl of soup and a glass of water. He set it on the table a couple of meters from her.

“You’re awake. That’s good,” he said calmly, almost matter-of-factly. “I thought I’d overdone it. You’re small—hard to get the dosage right.”

She tried to swallow and coughed instead. Her voice was hoarse; she was shaking.

“Where am I?”

He sat on the bottom step, hands on his knees.

“Safe. It feels terrible right now, but that’s just the shock. It’ll pass. Eat while it’s hot.”

She ignored the food and looked at his hands. Clean. Ordinary.

“Why did you bring me here? What time is it?”

He glanced at his watch.

“Seven-thirty in the evening. It started raining hard outside. You wouldn’t like being out there right now.”

Her voice began to tremble as she tried to catch his eye.

“My mom… she’ll be looking for me. She’s probably calling already. My phone is in my bag. Where is it?”

He spoke to her softly, almost patiently, as if to a child:

“Anya… may I call you Anya? Your phone has been off for a while. It had to be. Not because I wanted to hurt you. We need silence here. We both need silence.”

She shifted closer to the light, peering into his face.

“Do I know you? Did you work at the bank? Or at the pharmacy on the corner?”

He smiled, barely.

“No, you don’t. But I’ve known you for a very long time. I saw the way you picked out apples. You always chose the smaller ones and stood there turning them over in your hands. It’s… touching.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. A pause.

“What are you… going to do with me?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just be here. I’m not going to hit you or… whatever they write in the papers. I just need you to be. You’ll stay here, and we’ll get used to each other. I bought you books. Over there, in the corner, in the box. Jane Eyre—you like that sort of thing, don’t you?”

She understood he was talking about her the way people talked about a pet, and it made her even more afraid.

“Please… I have money. Not much—about two thousand in my account. I’ll give you my PIN. Just take me to a bus stop. I’ll say I got mugged. I’ll say I didn’t see you. I swear…”

He exhaled, stood up, and turned as if to go back upstairs.

“The soup will get cold. Eat. There’s a spoon. Tomorrow I’ll bring you clean clothes. Good night, Anya.”

She lurched to her feet. Her legs buckled, but she managed to stay upright.

“Wait! What’s your name? At least tell me your name!”

He froze and looked back. His face was half in shadow.

“Does it matter? Now I’m your whole world. And the world has no name.”

He closed the door. She heard the key turn twice in the lock.

Anya stood there for a few seconds, not moving. Then she slowly slid down the wall and sat again.

The silence pressed down like a lid that had been lowered and forgotten. The dim bulb overhead buzzed faintly, making the room feel less empty.

She got up eventually, her palm sliding along the wall. She took a few steps and looked around more carefully.

In one corner sat a cardboard box with a few books inside. Beside the couch stood a simple table—almost a kitchen table—worn, its bare tabletop scuffed smooth. Against the far wall was an old writing desk with pull-out drawers. In front of it sat a stool. Opposite it, a staircase led upstairs; beneath it was an empty alcove—a place for anything that didn’t belong anywhere else. To the right, paper sacks of cement were stacked in a heap, tightly wrapped in plastic, with boards thrown on top, blocking the way into another section of the basement. To her left, a little farther off, stood a folding screen—an absurd, almost homely thing amid the concrete and construction clutter.

Anya moved closer and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled the edge of the fabric aside. Behind the screen was a bathroom: a toilet and a sink, everything small, crammed tightly together. It smelled of damp and soap. She only glanced inside—and immediately let the fabric fall back into place, as if she were closing not a corner, but a possibility.

Then she made her way to the old couch and went still, listening to the house above—for any rustle that might mean he was coming down again.