— It’s him.
With a trembling voice, I asked:
— What do you want from us? I’m calling the police right now!
No answer. Only heavy breathing on the other side of the door.
Then — slow, heavy footsteps, fading away, echoing against the tiled floor.
We stood there for a long time, motionless, until the silence became unbearable. My daughter looked up at me, frightened:
— Mom, who was that? — I don’t know, — I said, trying to sound calm, though my hands were shaking.
— But we’re not leaving until Dad gets here.
I called my husband and whispered everything to him. He left immediately.
We waited, holding our breath. Outside, we could hear people coming in, water running, but every sound made us jump.
When my husband finally arrived and called out to us, I opened the door, still holding my daughter’s hand.
We stepped out — and only then did we notice, on the floor near the entrance to the restroom, a dark muddy streak — the footprint of those same shoes.
