The back door slides open with much ease. It lets in a draft of cold morning air. There's a huge abundance of bicycle racks here, as if designed for a large mall rather than a small suburban apartment. There would only be five or six bikes at a time and each time, there would be different ones parked. Perhaps residents from other buildings left theirs here as well. Other than the bikes, the entire city might as well have been deserted overnight. The bicycle lot opens up into a stretch of pavement behind the residences. Usually, local teenagers use it to play soccer or catch, kids run around playing tag, but in the winter it's abandoned, serving no purpose whatsoever. It isn't accessible via road and thus, it can't used as a parking lot either. It remains empty and blank, eating up ultraviolet rays from the sun.

Beyond the flat space, several buildings stand at varying heights. No one's on top of the four story apartment directly in front, nor any probing eyes in the two storey houses to the left and right. No glimpses of half-hidden figures or reflecting lenses of scopes and cameras. All's clear. I take a good amount of time standing and stretching my arms out above my head, as much as my heavy backpack and suit could let me. I reach to the sky, a surprisingly infinite azure above. On the ground, I see a clear remnant of the snowfall from last night.

It takes me little time to unlock my bicycle. It had been given to me by an old resident in the apartment on the top floor when he had moved out within the first two weeks of my arrival. I could somehow remember it clearly now, like Shizuka's chai tea latte. A thin middle-aged man, he had told me he would be moving into the mountains where he had come from and that city life wasn't for him. But he mentioned something about needing to make it out without saying a word to anyone. Not to the place he was employed, not to the landlord. Yet he had told me and given me his bicycle. When the landlord found out, he was naturally furious but the man had already paid for the next three months of rent. It was a strange situation. He must have had an urgent reason other than city life. I believe I had been on good terms with him for the brief period of time we had known each other. I hope he's still doing well.

On the other hand, I wonder why such a memory had come to mind. It's typically difficult to recall anything from the past. It may be due to Processing, or perhaps I've always had a poor memory to start with. But this morning, the bicycle triggers a natural, irrepressible recollection of Mr. Goya.

I straighten my black suit, adjust my backpack so it's more comfortable for cycling and set my feet firmly aboard. I begin to pedal. The cold air assails my forehead and temples. Not quite pins and needles, but enough to cause a slight numbness in my face. I grit my teeth and press onwards.

From the bicycle lot, I have to travel a short distance in front of the house next door in order to make it to the road. I take a deep breath before picking up speed. My hands are growing sweaty even though the rest of my body is cold. At this point, it's relatively easy to stabilize the handlebars but looking down, my knuckles are still distinguishably white and protruding with some foreign intensity. The chain buzzes. I intend to maintain a comfortable pace, fast enough so an onlooker could not make out my facial features as I pass by, but slow enough so it wouldn't give off an impression that I'm in a rush.

For a moment, I suddenly realize that I don't feel my heartbeat. There's a void, a strange calm, where there should have been a pounding thud through my chest. It might have been the numbing cold, or my heart had decided to vanish to find another host, or something else altogether, but, as soon as I noticed, there is a violent reverberation through my bones, jackhammer into my skull. It's beating rapidly once again. I'm still alive, and anxious.

There's no one in the alleyway or in front of the house as I pass through. It's as if they had never existed in the first place. There doesn't seem to be any leftover signs or litter, and surely not even a strand of hair. Even as every inch of my skin begins to crawl with the sensation of being watched, there are no visible indicators that it's more than delusional paranoia.

The wheels clatter over the curb. Our shadow stretches over the pavement in a grotesque elongation such that it looks painful to watch. Rough grit and texture of the pavement shifts through the frame of the shadow. I begin to wonder how it would feel to have such rugged encrusted skin. Other than this odd projection of me, there is nothing worth noting in the vicinity.

Down the road, I take a look back at my apartment building, for perhaps the last time. It's the same as ever: a squat grey block of reinforced concrete. Windows so small and hidden behind cramped half-balconies, that they look like holes punched in with a high caliber firearm. One side is lit by the morning sun, brushing long shadows across its face. It isn't a pretty sight, but I've lived there for a few years. It still carries the sense of home, but perhaps I might never find such a concept again.

I wonder what Shizuka is doing. If she's already at the door, waiting until exactly twelve minutes pass by. I can imagine her steady confident pace, tap tap tap of her heels. Come to think of it, I'm not sure what shoes she would be wearing. I only recall the image of her putting on long boots, zipping it up the side. But female employees in suits don't wear long brown boots.

There's a man ahead of me. Other than him, it's still empty. I ponder, not for the first or last time, why it's so quiet this morning. Though this is only a side street, there should be a steady stream of workers heading to the train station. There are a few cars passing by every now and then. A Daihatsu, a Toyota, a Suzuki. Grey, blue grey, black. Nothing interesting. I always wonder why a certain colour or the lack of colour is popular. It's as if being unimaginative and dismal is a virtue. These colours are assumed to be safe as it reveals no personality, but that choice in itself reveals character. But surely, even colours are subjective and a social construct. If the masses were conditioned, educated since birth to believe red is the most customary colour, in a society where red is the cheapest and the most available, and in its symbolism represented stoicism, perhaps there would be a domination of red cars. Scientifically speaking, a neutral shade, blacks, greys, whites, is the lack of colour, yet, to create grey or black paint, an artist could mix many different pigments together, and white, is a rainbow spectrum of light. Rather than the lack of colour, it could be considered the existence of all colours in harmony. It's sadly misunderstood. It would be interesting to have a world bathed in red cars, red clothing, red signs, red billboards, red posters, printed with white font stating "System is Everything."

The man is on the sidewalk, while I'm on the road. He's in a black suit from what I can make out. He has hair waxed back. I notice a slight limp in his leg as he walks, but nothing too obvious. But I can't see his face as I'm behind him. When I pass him, he will be able to watch me cycling for a good block. The road ahead is straight and flat, the buildings sharp and clean, neutral colours. A few coloured signs. No extra parked cars, cables or niches to hide the view.

Something is not quite right, someone is watching me; those are the only phrases that repeat through my head. I pick up speed and feel my armpits sweating. It's starting to moisten my white dress shirt. As I think about my shirt, I pass by the suit on the sidewalk. I don't quite catch his features but he might have caught mine. So I don't look back and maintain my course with as much confidence as I could muster.

Almost at the end of the block, the light turns red and I stop. I'm not yet out of sight. I realize I'm entirely visible, in the middle of the road, at a standstill. An open target, saying look at me. Cars are passing by and coming up from behind. The man behind me limping down the sidewalk draws closer in my imagination. I can visualize the details of the street. I can see him and his black suit, but I cannot see his face. I fight the instinct to turn around. Turn around, turn around, but someone might turn into salt, like Lot's wife. Or Eurydice. Perhaps Shizuka might turn into stone.

The light turns green and every fiber and every muscle is screaming at me but I just pedal and press onward. No hesitation, no change of pace, no shifty glances. Don't lose your cool, I tell myself, he's just another man you pass by on the street. In a few minutes, I'll be a block away from the station.

Sure enough, I feel the tension gradually easing from my neck, and some kind of liquid warmth filling my body. I don't intend to enter the station so I plant both feet on the ground and draw to a halt up against the wall of a closed electronics shop. The windows are highly reflective and I can see my face in it. I look much older - but not wiser - and thinner, as if I haven't eaten well for months. The windows are covered with blinds from the inside. The door is locked tight. I can't see the interior of the store: it's pitch black, like looking into a black hole. There's no one around. I wait a moment. There's still no one around. It's just an exceptionally quiet morning.

I pull out my phone. There are two messages waiting for me.

Let's meet up, she says. It's a simple phrase, no decorations, no attachments. Her tone is formal and unassuming. Not a text between lovers, or even friends, just a rendezvous.

I read the other one. It's from a number I don't recognize.

You are entering the rabbit hole, it says.

I save the number and delete the message as quickly as I can. Rabbit hole? There's still no one around. I gaze into the gut of the shop. It's dark and silent. I text her back and tell her I'm on my way.