The Constable's Closed Door

The constable's expression doesn't change as you lay the handwritten note before him — and that stillness is its own answer. He reads it once, folds it carefully, then crosses to the door. The lock clicks with quiet finality.

Through the frosted window, you watch his silhouette lift the telephone receiver. He doesn't look at you. He doesn't need to. You are already evidence requiring disposal.

You slip out before he turns around. The cold street offers no comfort — every window feels like an eye, every distant hoofbeat a countdown. Millhaven itself has turned against you.