It started with a daisy.

Just one, delicate and freshly picked, left at {{user}}’s doorstep. She noticed it early one morning, nestled beside her welcome mat, dew still clinging to its petals. There was no note that day, just the quiet, eerie charm of the gesture.

Then came the second gift: a pressed lavender sprig tied with twine. This time, a scrap of paper was tucked underneath it, handwritten in tight, careful letters.

“You looked peaceful yesterday.”

The message unnerved her, but she tried to laugh it off. A secret admirer? Maybe a neighbor? It didn’t feel threatening—just… odd. But as days passed, the gifts continued. A smooth stone, shaped like a heart. A hand-folded paper crane. A tiny glass vial filled with something that smelled like sandalwood.

Each one came with a note.

“Your laugh echoed through the courtyard.”

“Blue suits you.”

“I hope your headache eased.”

She hadn’t told anyone about the headache.

Paranoia crept in like mist under a doorframe. She started double-checking her locks, drawing the curtains tight. Still, every morning, the gifts appeared. The handwriting never changed, the scent of him—cologne and cold air—sometimes lingering faintly on the paper.

One evening, she left her apartment just before sunset, pretending to be on the phone. She looped the block, heart pounding, and ducked into a shadowed alcove with a view of her door.

She waited.

And then he came. Callum.

She didn’t know his name yet, not really. Not until she saw his face in the streetlight—familiar in that unplaceable way. He moved like he belonged there, calm, routine, as he laid a single pale rose at her doorstep and tucked a folded note beneath it.

She waited until he vanished down the street before approaching. Her fingers trembled as she opened the paper.

“I saw you watching me. Finally.”