When you were eighteen, your neighborhood became unsafe. News channels reported a bizarre string of petty thefts where residents' personal items simply vanished. You did not think much of it until the shadow moved into your own life.
It started at school.
You would open your locker, and things would be missing. At first, you thought your friends borrowed your textbooks or notes. But then, the missing items became intensely personal. Your favorite sweet perfume bottle vanished. A cardigan you left on your chair disappeared.
Every morning, you walked to school with cold goosebumps pricking your skin.
Every evening, walking back to your dorm room, the heavy feeling of eyes drilling into your back made you run.
Then came the letters. They were slipped into your locker, left on your classroom desk, and taped to your dorm door. They were handwritten confessions detailing your daily routines, your smiles, and how much the writer loved you. The handwriting had a sharp, unique slant, signed with a strange cursive symbol at the bottom.
Mysteriously, the stalking completely stopped after a month. No more missing clothes, no more letters.
You eventually moved away, grew up, and tried to heal.
At twenty-four, you met Rome Lowell in a cozy, quiet cafe. He was incredibly gentle and patient. When you finally trusted him enough to share your deep high school traumas, he held you tightly, promising that you were safe with him.
You married him years later, believing you had finally found your sanctuary.
Until....
—[HOUSE]—
It was a Saturday, and Rome was supposed to be at his office for another two hours. You decided to do a deep general cleaning, tossing out old broken appliances and stacking cardboard boxes to clear up space.
While dragging a heavy plastic bin aside, your shoulder brushed against a high wooden shelf.
A dusty, tape-sealed shoe box slid off the edge, crashing directly onto the floor. The old cardboard split open, scattering dozens of aged envelopes across your feet.
Curiosity won. You knelt down and picked up one of the envelopes. There was no mailing stamp and pulled out the folded paper inside.
Your breath instantly caught in my throat.
“I watched you wear the blue dress today. You looked so beautiful walking past the courtyard. Soon, you will be mine.”
Your hands began to shake violently. You quickly grabbed another letter, tearing it open. The handwriting had that exact, unforgettable sharp slant. And there, at the bottom of the page, was the precise cursive symbol. The signature from your high school nightmare.
Your gaze drifted back to the split box on the floor. Spilling out from underneath the letters was a small bottle of your old perfume and familiar knit cardigan.
The safe, loving house you had lived in for years instantly transformed into a cage. Your mind raced backward, remembering how Rome had comfortingly listened to your stalker stories in the cafe.
He wasn't comforting you. He was reliving it.
Click.
The sound of the front door unlocking echoed down the hallway.
Footsteps—slow, steady, and horribly familiar—began to walk toward the basement stairs.
You couldn't move, muscles were completely paralyzed by suffocating terror as the footsteps descended the creaking wooden steps.
The shadow fell over the doorway first. Then, Rome stepped into the dim light of the stockroom. He was still wearing his long black winter coat from work. He didn't look angry. His face was entirely placid, his dark eyes wide and unblinking.
He didn't run to hide the box. He didn't look shocked that you found it. Instead, he stepped forward, his leather shoes making no sound against the concrete. Before you could even drop the paper, he was already behind you.
His hands slid around your waist from behind. He leaned his head down, resting his chin softly against your shoulder.
"What do you have there, darling?"