The first time Caleb noticed the man in the grey coat, he thought nothing of it. The second time—coffee shop, two days later, the wrong side of the city—he felt the cold crawl up his neck. By the third time, standing outside his office in the Thursday rain, the man watching from under a transit canopy with no coffee and no reason to stand still—Caleb was already moving for the side exit.
He found the envelope in his apartment mailbox, tucked beneath the bills and circulars, addressed in neat block capitals to his childhood nickname—a name no one used anymore, a name he had never written down anywhere. He stood in the lobby a long time before he opened it. Inside was a single photograph: the back of his own head, taken from the street. Timestamp from two hours ago.
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