It was raining hard—sheets of water slashed the streets under flickering streetlights. I pulled my soaked coat tighter and walked fast toward downtown, hoping to catch a taxi. But the roads were empty, like the world had folded into silence. My long coat clung to me like a burden, drenched and heavy, and my hat barely shielded my face from the relentless downpour.
Midnight had crept in. No sun. No warmth. Only shadows and the whisper of danger in the wind. I lit a cigarette, letting its faint glow keep me company.
That’s when I heard it—muffled voices from the far end of a narrow alley.
“Master told me the old lady’s dead. What now?”
“Now… we kill the guy who walks this road every night.”
A chill ran down my spine.
That’s me, I whispered, heart clenching.
“Hey! Who’s that?” one of them shouted.
Panic exploded in my chest. My cigarette slipped from my lips and hit the wet pavement. I ran—splashing through puddles, their footsteps pounding behind me.
“Loui, that’s him!” one of them yelled.
I couldn't outrun them in this coat—it was dragging me down like an anchor. Gasping, I shrugged it off and bolted. My breath was sharp, my body screaming from the cold. Then—salvation.
A taxi.
Its headlights cut through the rain like hope. I waved, but before I reached it—
Bang!
A gunshot split the air.
I flinched, thinking I’d been hit, but then I saw the driver—slumped forward, blood painting the windshield red.
No time to mourn.
I lunged for the door, bullets flying past me. I yanked it open, shoved the lifeless driver out, and ducked behind the door just as another shot hit metal.
I slammed the door shut and floored the accelerator. The tires screeched and the car jerked forward. The windshield was smeared, the rear glass exploded behind me. Bullets flew like hailstones. But I was gone.
Alive.
For now.
The morning sun tried to pierce through the grey clouds, but the storm from last night had left behind a broken sky and puddles like mirrors on the ground.
I parked the taxi just outside my building. Its engine coughed one last breath before I turned the key and sat still. My hands trembled on the wheel. My soaked shirt clung to my skin like regret. The driver’s blood had dried in the seams of the passenger seat. My heart hadn’t stopped pounding since the chase.
I didn’t kill him.
I whispered it to myself like a prayer.
But as I reached for the door handle, I saw flashing lights reflected in the side mirror—red and blue, blending with the morning mist.
“Step out of the vehicle slowly. Hands where we can see them!”
Voices. Sharp. Commanding.
I blinked twice, then pushed open the door. I barely set one foot on the ground when a dozen boots rushed toward me.
“On the ground! Now!”
Before I could speak, I was slammed onto the wet pavement. Cold metal cuffed my wrists behind my back.
“I didn’t kill him,” I muttered.
A detective knelt beside me, his eyes unreadable. He wore a long beige coat and carried the air of someone who had seen far too much and trusted far too little.
“Then why was the body of a taxi driver found in a car you drove? Right in front of your house?”
“They were chasing me. Two of them—armed. They shot him. I had no choice!”
“And you conveniently escaped, drove the body home, and left it there?”
I shook my head. “No—please, listen to me. I ran for my life. I thought they were still following.”
He sighed and stood up. “Bag the vehicle,” he ordered the officers. “Get forensics on the door and rear window.”
I was hauled to my feet. Around me, neighbors peeked from behind curtains. Curious, judging eyes. The sun was finally up—but it didn’t feel like morning.
It felt like the nightmare just changed shifts.
As they pushed me into the police car, I looked back at the taxi—its windshield cracked, blood smeared across the seat, and my fingerprints on everything.
Innocent or not…
I had become part of a murder scene.
And unless I found proof fast, I wouldn’t just be the getaway driver.
I’d be the fall guy.
A day before.
He, the man in the long coat, the cigarette a quiet ember between his fingers—his name was Loui.
He once found comfort in silence, in the symmetry of petals, in the scent of jasmine and wet leaves. The old lady, his quiet mentor, used to call him "her curious shadow." Wherever she went in the garden, he followed—asking about roots, soil, flowering seasons. Maybe it was an escape. Maybe it was penance.
“You see this plant, Loui?” she would often say, brushing a delicate green leaf between her fingers. “It’s called Mimosa pudica—the touch-me-not. It’s not just shy for show. It folds its leaves when touched, a behavior we call thigmonasty. No central nervous system. No brain. Yet it remembers touch, reacts to it… even adapts to repeated exposure.”
Loui would nod, half-listening, half-lost in his own head.
That morning, she said it again, showing him the same plant. The leaves folded obediently at her touch. Life defending itself—quietly, instinctively.
But before he could reply, his phone rang inside his coat pocket.
Bzzzt. Bzzzt.
He sighed. "A minute, madam," he muttered and stepped away, pulling the phone to his ear.
“What now?!”
“Guy didn’t give the money back,” came the sharp voice on the other end. “He’s backing up from his promise.”
Loui’s jaw clenched. “So what for me?”
“We can talk about your share later,” the man on the call snapped.
“But why me? Do it yourselves.”
“Hey, you brought him to me in the first place, right?”
“Yes, ‘cause he needed help. I didn’t promise him a bullet.”
“I didn’t ask for blood. Just scare him. His mother’s there, right?”
Loui turned slightly, saw her in the kitchen, boiling water for tea.
Her hands moved with rhythm, grace… trust.
“Yeah, she’s here.”
“Record something. Shake her. The son will fold faster than paper.”
There was a pause.
“Fine,” Loui said, tired. “But this is the last time.”
He was about to hang up when the man on the call said something that made Loui's heart jump—
“And anyway… she won’t remember it.”
Loui cut the call. His breath caught in his throat for a second.
---
The old woman was humming now. A soft, warm tune. The kettle whistled gently.
Loui stepped into the kitchen.
His coat brushed the doorframe.
In one hand, his phone camera.
In the other—a small pocketknife. Just enough for fear, not for harm.
He cleared his throat.
She turned around, still smiling. “The tea is almost ready—”
But her smile faltered when she saw the knife in his hand.
And the phone.
The kettle screamed behind her. So did her eyes.
“Loui… what are you—?”
“Just a warning,” he said quietly, raising the camera. “I’m sorry, madam. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He stepped forward. Just a little.
She backed away. Her hand clutched the counter.
“Please… don’t,” she whispered.
He tried to speak again, softer this time—but then it happened.
Her breath hitched.
Her body froze, eyes wide.
She gripped her chest.
“No—wait—madam?” Loui’s voice cracked.
The knife clattered to the floor.
She staggered once—twice—then collapsed.
---
The tea kettle kept screaming.
Loui stood motionless, phone still recording for a second longer, his heart thundering louder than anything in the room.
“Madam…” he whispered, falling to his knees. “Please. Please no. I didn’t mean—”
But her body didn’t move.
Her eyes, still open, stared at the ceiling.
Outside the window, the Mimosa pudica folded slowly as the wind brushed past it.
A plant without a brain.
Without memory.
And yet, it knew when something had changed.
React
