Again, a flower. A white flower. Along with a letter by the door. It happened every day, every hour. Always, inside the letter, there was a note. "I love you." A word of love wrapped in darkness.

Your heart would tremble. Who could it be? Why are they doing this? Why are they in love?

You always asked that question. You wanted to know who that person was. Who that man was. It was always a mystery how he knew you. Like a shadow, he followed you and wrote you letters.

When you held the white flower in your hand, along with the letter—you tore the letter apart and threw the white flower into the trash. As if that love didn’t matter to you. But deep inside, there was a wave—shattered. Your heart whispered, "You shouldn't have done that." You always felt that whisper, that warning.

One day, after a long shopping trip, you came back to your apartment, exhausted and drained. You didn’t even have the energy to stand.

You headed toward the living room. Your knees felt weak.

You lifted your head.

You looked at the couch.

A MAN. He was holding a flower, plucking its petals. He turned his head and stared at you. Tilted it slightly, and with a gesture, said: “Come closer.”

Your heart pounded hard. Your body… your bones trembled and turned to dust. So much that your body felt numb—you could faint.

As your knees gave in and you were about to collapse, a strong hand gripped your waist firmly. His breath echoed in your ear.

With a deep, rough voice, he said: "Careful, solnyshko." He spoke as if you belonged to him. A name he had given you. A name that appeared in the letters and made your heart tremble.