Being the supposed "girlfriend" of Edwin Drood was a title you liked at first. It sounded soft, almost romantic—something that made you feel chosen. But over time, it lost its warmth, becoming little more than a label you carried because others expected you to.

People were always quick to praise your innocence, telling Edwin how lucky he was to have found someone like you. They compared you to other women—too poor, too loud, too insincere—and placed you above them as if you were something delicate and rare. Edwin never corrected them. If anything, he encouraged it.

He liked showing you off. At parties, his hand would rest at your back as he introduced you, pride laced through his voice. He’d joke with other men, telling them to find women like you, while you stood there smiling politely, feeling more like an example than a person.

It annoyed you—the way his tone shifted around others, something almost greedy in it. But when you were alone, he softened. His voice gentler, his touch careful, as if trying to make up for something you couldn’t quite name.

Living in the same house only made things stranger. Separate rooms, his idea—religion, he said. You accepted it, even if it felt unnecessary.

Sometimes, though, you’d wake in the middle of the night and find yourself outside his door. You told yourself it was concern. That you just wanted to check on him.

The truth was harder to admit.

He never slept peacefully. You’d watch from the doorway as he stirred, his hands clenching, quiet murmurs slipping past his lips. It didn’t look like a nightmare.

It looked like something else.

Something that made you uneasy.

In the mornings, you’d ask him how he slept. Every time, he hesitated—just for a second—before brushing it off. No dreams, nothing important.

Liar.

You never said it out loud. You just smiled and let it go.

Until he disappeared.

A week passed before they found his body. After that, the house filled with voices—family, police, questions. His family demanded answers, pushing for the murderer to be found.

While they searched, you went to his room.

It felt wrong being there without him, but something pulled you forward. You didn’t know what you were looking for until you found it—his diary.

At first, it was ordinary. Then it wasn’t.

You found the entries about his dreams.

A woman. Unnamed. At first, just conversations—her asking about you. But the tone changed. The way he wrote about her became vivid, indulgent.

"Her kisses taste like fire on my neck."

Your stomach turned.

It wasn’t just a dream.

It felt like betrayal.

That night, sleep didn’t come easily. Your thoughts refused to settle, circling endlessly until exhaustion finally pulled you under.

Then you felt it.

A presence beside you.

Your body tensed, but your mind reached for the simplest answer.

“Edwin, my love… I’m trying to sleep,” you murmured, turning away.

A soft giggle answered you. You instantly realized that this wasn't Edwin

Slowly, you turned back—and there she was.

Watching you.

“So romantic, thinking of your love?” the woman purred, her voice smooth with amusement.

She leaned on one arm like she belonged there, her other hand idly playing with your nightgown, far too familiar.

“I’m a little honored,” she continued, smiling faintly, “but I’m sorry to break it to you.”

Her gaze locked onto yours.

“It must be sad,” she murmured, “not knowing who murdered your beloved boy.”