The Heart System

Chapter 411: Chapter 411

We stepped out into the snow, the supermarket lights buzzing ahead, Amelia still shaking her head like she’d just learned a secret she wasn’t sure she was allowed to know.

Amelia and I walked toward the supermarket together, our steps syncing without trying. The air was cold enough to sting a little, the kind that crept into your sleeves and stayed there. Her breath puffed out in short clouds, and she kept her hands buried in her coat pockets.

The automatic doors slid open as we reached them, letting out a wash of warm air that smelled like bread and disinfectant. Inside, the place was bright—too bright—white lights humming overhead, reflecting off the tiled floor. Carts rattled somewhere behind us. A scanner beeped rhythmically at the registers. Everything felt busy without being loud.

The cigarette counter was right near the front, behind the checkout lanes. Packs lined up behind the cashier in neat rows, all colors and warning labels. The woman working the register barely looked up when I stepped forward.

I told her what I wanted. She reached back, grabbed the packs, slid them across the counter. I paid, stuffed them into my jacket pocket.

I turned to Amelia. "Have you eaten anything yet?"

She shook her head. "Nope."

"Well," I said, glancing around, "since we’re here... want to eat?"

She didn’t hesitate. "Yeah. Sure."

"Where?" I asked. "Your call."

Her mouth curved into a small, confident smile. "I know a place. They make the best flatbread wraps."

I raised an eyebrow. "That’s a bold claim."

"It’s close," she added. "I walk there from the company all the time."

I nodded. "Alright."

We headed back toward the exit. The doors opened again, the cold rushing in—and that’s when I noticed him.

A man stood just outside, one hand resting on a shopping cart. Late forties, maybe. Short. Thick through the middle. A white beard that looked more neglected than styled. His jacket was worn thin, and his eyes lingered in a way that made my skin crawl.

Amelia saw him too. I felt the shift in her immediately. Her posture tightened. Her steps slowed just a fraction. She was suddenly alert, like she’d flipped a switch.

The man didn’t move. Just watched.

I didn’t say anything. I stepped a little closer to Amelia as we passed him, close enough that our arms brushed. The cart squeaked softly when he shifted his weight.

We kept walking.

After a few seconds, Amelia cleared her throat. "It’s... it’s there. Just across the street."

I nodded. "Okay."

We stopped at the crosswalk. Red light. Cars rushed past, tires hissing against wet pavement. I glanced back over my shoulder.

The man was still there.

Still looking at us.

I looked away before Amelia could notice. The light changed, and we crossed. Halfway over, I checked again. He hadn’t followed. He was just standing there, staring, until a passing car blocked my view.

The place Amelia led me to was small, wedged between a pharmacy and a closed bookstore. Warm yellow light spilled out through fogged windows. The sign above the door was slightly crooked, hand-painted, the kind of place you didn’t find unless someone told you about it.

Inside, it felt instantly different. Softer. Safer. Wooden tables, mismatched chairs, a chalkboard menu with smudged handwriting. The air smelled like grilled bread, garlic, herbs—comforting in a way that hit before I even realized how tense I’d been.

A small bell rang when we walked in.

Behind the counter, a woman looked up from the grill and smiled like she recognized Amelia.

"Told you," Amelia said quietly.

I glanced around. A couple sharing food in the corner. Someone typing on a laptop with headphones on. Low conversation. The steady sizzle from the kitchen.

"Yeah," I said. "You did."

We stepped further inside, letting the door close behind us. The cold, the street, the man outside—none of it followed us in.

For the moment, it was just warmth, food, and the feeling that we’d landed somewhere we were meant to be.

We slid into a small table near the window. The chair creaked when I sat, wood worn smooth by a thousand other people leaning back the same way. Amelia set her coat on the empty chair beside her and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, still a little stiff, like she hadn’t fully shaken whatever happened outside.

A waiter came over—a guy around our age, apron dusted with flour, smile easy and practiced.

"What can I get you two?"

Amelia didn’t even need to look at the menu. "Two lamb flatbread wraps. Extra yogurt sauce. And fries to share."

He turned to me. "What about you, sir?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I’ll take whatever she’s having."

Amelia glanced up at me, surprised, then smiled faintly. The waiter scribbled it down, gave us a quick nod, and disappeared back toward the kitchen.

The silence settled in right after. Not heavy, just... there. The kind that made you aware of the hum of the lights, the scrape of cutlery from another table, the soft music playing somewhere overhead.

"So," I began, resting my forearms on the table. "I, uh, I kinda noticed that man. Back at the supermarket’s parking lot."

She didn’t look at me right away. Just stared at the table, fingers tracing the grain in the wood. "Yeah..."

"Who was he?" I asked. "If you don’t mind me asking?"

"It’s..." She muttered, her jaw tightening. "No one."

"Right," I said slowly. "Okay."

"Yeah..."

Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. I leaned back slightly, letting it drop. Whatever that was, she clearly didn’t want to open it up here.

While we waited, I took the place in properly. The walls were covered in old photos—black-and-white shots of the street from decades ago, a faded picture of the shop when it first opened. There were handwritten notes taped near the counter, thank-yous from regulars. A small shelf held jars of pickled vegetables and spices, labels written in looping script. It felt lived-in. Real.

The smell coming from the kitchen made my stomach growl before I could stop it.

Our food arrived on chipped ceramic plates. The flatbread was blistered and warm, folded over thick slices of meat, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, sauce dripping just enough to be messy. The fries were golden, dusted with something that smelled like paprika and salt.

"Careful," Amelia said as she picked hers up. "They overfill these."

I took a bite and immediately understood why she liked the place. The meat was tender, smoky, the sauce cool and sharp against it. I chewed slowly, nodding.

"Okay," I said. "Yeah. You win."

She laughed quietly, the tension easing just a bit. We ate for a while, trading small comments about work, about nothing important. The way people do when they’re circling around something without touching it.

I reached for another bite—and caught movement in the window.

My stomach dropped.

The man stood outside, just off to the side of the glass. Same jacket. Same beard. Same eyes. Amelia’s back was to him. She had no idea.

I stared at him for a second too long. He noticed. Our eyes locked.

I exhaled through my nose and set the wrap down. "Hey," I said lightly, standing. "I need to make a phone call. I’ll be right back, okay?"

She nodded, distracted by her food. "Yep."

I walked toward the door, then paused, glancing back. Amelia was still eating, unaware. Good.

I pushed the door open and stepped outside. The cold hit me immediately. I closed the door behind me and turned.

The man was still there. But now he wasn’t looking past me.

He was looking straight at me.

"Well..." I muttered under my breath. "Let’s see what he wants..."

I walked toward him, stopping a few feet away.

"Hey," I said. "You’re looking for someone, man?"

"Mm?" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

"No one," I said. "Answer my question, please."

"No one, huh?"

"Why are you looking at Amelia?" I asked. "Are you some sort of stalker?"

"Stalker?" He scoffed, then shook his head. "I’m his father."

"Father?"

He spat on the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned and started toward the crosswalk.

I stood there, scratching the back of my head as I watched him go. Her father? They didn’t look anything alike. He looked like he hadn’t taken care of himself in years. Amelia was... the complete opposite.

What kind of relationship did they have?

Or he could’ve been lying. That was just as likely. Plenty of creeps in the world said whatever they needed to get away.

Either way, one thing was clear—she hadn’t been happy to see him.

"Huh..." I muttered. "Her father, huh?"

The door chimed softly when I stepped back inside.

Warm air hit my face again, carrying the smell of grilled meat and spices, something buttery underneath it. I let the door swing shut behind me and paused for half a second, glancing over my shoulder through the glass.

She hadn’t noticed.

Amelia was still sitting there, shoulders slightly hunched, fork moving absently from plate to mouth like she was eating on autopilot. Her eyes were down, fixed on the food, lashes low. Whatever she was thinking about, it wasn’t what was in front of her.

Good.