Thin Ice

The note

The rink lights were humming above me, a soft, steady buzz that somehow made the place feel even emptier. My blades had been scraping through the ice as I danced, but my focus kept breaking every time I heard that annoying tapping somewhere against the wall. I still couldn't figure out where it was coming from.

When Ivana turned off the music, I finally stopped.

"Do you hear this?" I asked her, frustrated.

She looked at me like she hadn't noticed anything. "Hear what?"

"That tapping... someone's been doing that for over ten minutes now. It's killing me."

"Jules, that's nothing... probably from outside. You sure you're okay? Have you gotten enough sleep?" Ivana sighed, looking up at the ceiling before closing her eyes for a second, trying not to sound rude.

"Listen, I—" she started, but then she stopped mid-sentence. We both heard it again.

She opened her eyes. "Okay... you're not paranoid. I hear it too. And it's definitely on purpose."

I looked around us, trying to find whoever was making the noise. And then my eyes landed on someone sitting at the edge of the rink, on one of the seats against the wall, looking directly at me.

I squinted, trying to understand who he was. He seemed completely unfazed — almost like he owned the place.

Ivana noticed him too. "Who's that? Was he here the whole time?"

We stepped off the ice, moving toward the benches. I kept checking if he moved, but he didn't. He just sat there, calm, watching.

"I don't feel like continuing with him in the rink," I said. "It's completely empty."

"Yeah... I get it," Ivana replied, lowering her voice. "Alright. Let's take a break on the benches. If he's still here after that, we'll ask someone to check it out."

I sat down, trying to breathe, but I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Ivana kept glancing toward him.

"Has he moved at all?" I whispered.

"Nope. He hasn't even blinked, I think," she said.

Great.

She looked at me. "Look, do you want me to go talk to him?"

"What? No! What if he's—"

But then the tapping started again. Slow, steady. Directed.

Ivana straightened. "Okay. That's definitely directed at us."

"Or at me..." I muttered.

Ivana finally decided to approach him. As she walked closer, the guy shifted — not in a threatening way, just enough to reach into his jacket pocket.

I froze.

But all he pulled out was a small, folded piece of paper. He held it out with two fingers, waiting.

Ivana went to him, took the note, and he simply nodded — calm, almost polite — before walking out of the rink without saying a word.

The door closed behind him.

I looked at the note in Ivana's hands. "Open it."

"You sure?" she asked.

"He came here for me. I need to know why."

She unfolded it slowly and read aloud:

"...your timing is off. Left foot on the third beat."

I stared at it.

Ivana blinked. "That's... coaching advice. Weirdly accurate coaching advice."

I had no idea what to make of it.