The Stranger on the Terrace

The Stranger on the Terrace The terrace smelled like wet stone and jasmine. City lights blurred into a gauzy ribbon below, and the hum of late-night traffic was a distant, rhythmic pulse. I came up for air because the apartment felt small—too many voices, too many polite smiles. The roof was empty except for a few potted plants and one wooden chair that had seen better summers. I hadn’t expected to find anyone up there. He was already there, leaning with both hands on the low parapet, looking out over the city as if he belonged to the skyline. For a heartbeat I wondered if he was a tenant from the next building—someone who’d slipped up the fire escape—or a stranger who’d simply wandered into someone else’s evening. The terrace light threw him in soft tones: a shadowed jaw, a coat collar turned up against the night air, and a presence that seemed to slow the minutes around him. “Night,” I said before I could overthink it. He didn’t turn immediately. When he did, his eyes found mine with the kind of easy focus that made the air feel suddenly smaller. Not the quick glance of someone trying to be polite—this was the kind of...