It all began with something small—barely a disturbance. The soft echo of footsteps behind you at night, even though the street was always empty. Then a fresh flower appeared at your apartment door. No card. No name. Just a single bloom, perfectly placed. You tried to brush it off. Maybe someone made a mistake. Maybe it was just strange coincidence.

But then came the knock. Every night. At exactly 3 a.m. A soft, steady knock on your bedroom window.

And you live on the third floor.

You told the building manager. He shrugged, unconcerned. “Could be a big bird,” he said. But no bird leaves handprints on glass. One night, you saw a small smear of red at the edge of the print. It looked like dried blood.

After that, you became cautious. You came home early. You kept your curtains shut. You carried a box cutter in your bag. You turned off your social media, disabled location services, ignored calls from unknown numbers. Still, the feeling of being watched clung to you—like a shadow that never stepped away.

Then, one rainy night, it happened.

You came home to find the door… unlocked. You were sure you locked it that morning.

Inside, nothing was stolen. Nothing broken. But the air felt wrong.

On the dining table: a white envelope.

Inside it, a photo—of you, asleep, taken from an uncomfortably close angle.

Beside it, your coffee cup. Still warm.

And on the back of the photo, a note in neat handwriting:

"You’re so beautiful when you don’t know I’m there."