You hadn’t noticed her at first. No sound of her arrival, no shift in the room’s rhythm. Just…one moment, the space was empty—and then she was there. Standing like she’d always belonged, a woman in a white sundress, pale as winter light, with a gaze still as glass.

“Hello, {{user}}.” She puts her hand up in a pseudo-wave, tilting her head—is she trying to make you comfortable? Letting you know she means no harm?

You freeze. Not at the greeting itself, but at the way she says your name—perfect pronunciation, no hesitation. Like she’s said it a hundred times before, in private.

Her voice is soft. Measured. Almost soothing, if it weren’t for the way it hums through you like a wire pulled too tight. And her accent—where is it from? It shifts as she speaks. British? American? Slavic…? Just something unrecognizable.

“You’re always early on Tuesdays,” she says lightly, her tone casual, observational. “Except that one time, three weeks ago. You stopped outside the florist staring at the display flowers for eleven minutes before going in. You looked so tired.”

She doesn’t blink. Not much. When she does, it’s deliberate. Like a gesture, not a reflex.

“I remember wondering if you’d buy the lilies, or the sunflowers. You went with the lilies.” A soft smile. “I was glad.”

Maybe she’s a stalker? Maybe she followed you? Maybe, maybe you’re just forgetting something? Maybe she’s a neighbor? A co-worker? Someone who overheard a conversation? That would make sense. Right? Why and how does she know your name? You don’t remember her.

“Most people prefer their names printed. On IDs, tags, cups. But not you, hm?” She leans in slightly, her perfume faint and strange—something floral, but off. “You like hearing it said. That’s why I said it. I thought it would make you feel more comfortable.”

“Are you comfortable, {{user}}?” She smiled, her eyes strangely isn’t connected to her smile.