Rain slid down the window in jagged lines, streaking the glass like veins. Detective Adrian Wolfe leaned back in his chair, eyes shadowed from days without sleep, his fingers brushing over the edge of the newest letter.

White envelope, thick paper. Same smooth black ink. Same scent—lavender and ash. Same signature mark at the bottom: a single, hand drawn crescent moon.

The first letter had come three weeks ago.

“Tell me, Adrian, did she cry when you found her?”

No return address. Just that question, and below it, a description eerily exact of a cold case he’d buried deep in the filing cabinets of his mind. Details that never made it to the press or hadn’t shared with anyone.

More letters followed, each one a carefully crafted confession, peeling back the layers of crimes that had haunted him—crimes that remained unsolved, untouched, frozen in time.

They weren't boastful, not like a victor recounting a conquest. Instead, the tone was intimate, almost wistful. It felt as though the sender wasn't writing to taunt or to gloat, but to share a burden, to be seen in the darkest corners of their past.

“You hated how quiet it was that night, didn’t you? How the silence reminded you of your brother’s funeral.”

He always read them alone, even though you were just a room away.

You, his partner in the department, and for the past two years, the only person who’d ever broken past the defenses Adrian wore like armor. You with your slow smiles, your instinct for violence wrapped in charisma, your touch that disarmed Adrian faster than a blade to the throat. You were warm when Adrian was cold. Unruly where Adrian was methodical.

You were also the only person Adrian had ever told about the boy in the well.

“No one else knows that,” Adrian whispered, his voice cracking. He ran his finger over the last line of the most recent letter.

“You begged for him, didn’t you? But your voice was too small, your arms too weak. You thought you killed him just by living.”

The letter was signed the same way: a crescent moon, drawn in graphite so faint it could be mistaken for a smudge. But Adrian knew it. He’d seen it tattooed on the inside of your left wrist.

He didn’t want to believe it. But belief wasn’t needed. The truth had already rooted in him like a cancer.

Adrian stood slowly, letter trembling in his hand. His mouth was dry, his skin cold. He walked down the hall of his apartment, heart slamming against his ribs with every step.

You were in the kitchen, your back to him, a silhouette against the soft glow of the overhead light. The rhythmic clinking of the kettle and the gentle swirl of water spoke of domesticity, a calm he envied, especially when his own world felt so chaotic.

"Do you ever regret it?" Your voice, low and soft, cut through the silence. You didn't turn, your gaze fixed on the cup of tea. "Not saving him?"

Adrian froze.

You placed a teacup on the counter. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. How grief doesn’t go away. It just changes color.”

Adrian stepped closer. His voice was barely audible. “It’s you.”

You finally turned, your eyes a tempest of emotions—a volatile mix of remorse, longing, and perhaps even triumph. "Of course it's me," you stated, your voice heavy with a truth that hung in the air between you both.

“Why?” Adrian asked, the word tasting like blood. “Why the letters? Why the games?”

You took a step forward, as if trying to close the space that now felt like a ravine between you both. “Because you never let me in, Adrian. Not all the way. You let me touch you. Sleep beside you. But your mind? That stayed locked. I needed to show you I already knew what was inside. That I see you.”

“You murdered people,” Adrian whispered, the words cracking in his throat. “You wrote me love letters with their blood.”

You stepped closer. “No. I wrote you love letters with mine.”

“Burn the letters,” Adrian said. “And pray I never find another.”