I live alone.
At eleven o’clock on a rainy night, my phone rang unexpectedly.
“Are you the owner of the car with license plate 9537? Your window’s open, and it’s pouring outside,” said a woman’s voice.
I thanked her repeatedly and was about to head downstairs, but work held me up.
Ten minutes later, the same number called again.
I picked up, intending to explain the delay.
But the moment the call connected, a different man’s voice came through.
“Wait, tell her like this…”
Then the voice abruptly cut off.
Why was there a man?
After a brief pause, the previous woman’s voice returned. “Hello? Why aren’t you coming down yet? Your car’s getting soaked!”
The sound of rain was still in the background, steady and relentless.
This time, her tone carried a hint of impatience.
Was she still by my car?
The ticking of the clock in my living room felt unusually loud.
It had been over ten minutes since her first call. And judging from the sound, it didn’t seem like she was alone near the car.
A vague sense of unease stirred within me, like a thread being pulled taut in my mind.
I calmed myself and found the number for the property management office.
While texting them for help, I kept the woman on the line.
“Oh, I just found my keys. I’m heading down now,” I said casually, then probed, “It’s raining pretty hard out there, isn’t it? It’s not safe for a girl to be out so late.”
I hit send on my message to the property management.
At that moment, the rain sound on the other end of the call briefly faded, as if someone had covered the receiver.
When the woman spoke again, her voice sounded slightly off.
“Ah, I’m waiting for someone downstairs and happened to notice your car window was open. You didn’t come down for so long, so I thought I’d remind you again.”
Then a man’s voice chimed in.
