M: [Think of it this way—maybe it really is just some client with a crush? You've made several dahlia pendant designs. He could guess your preferences from that. Plus Italian men are generally romantic. Maybe someone secretly likes you—maybe he's a magician who can teleport flowers? Think about the male clients you've dealt with. Anyone who showed special interest in you? And knows magic?]
Her wild imagination made me laugh. I thought back over the male clients I'd met these past months. A few had chatted with me more than necessary, but our interactions were all normal. No one seemed particularly special.
Me: [Can't think of anyone. Maybe.]
M: [Don't overthink it. If he means no harm and just keeps sending flowers, treat it as free decoration for your studio. If he does anything that makes you uncomfortable, call the police immediately. Also, check your studio locks—replace them if needed. Safety first.]
Me: [I know. Thanks for always listening to my rambling.]
M: [That's what friends do. And you listen to me complain about work all the time.]
M paused, then sent another message. [Get some sleep early. Don't let this nonsense affect your rest.]
After closing the chat window, I stared at the screen blankly. Could it be him?
No, really impossible. If Igor was that kind of person, if he'd really found me, he wouldn't use such a lukewarm approach. He'd appear directly, trap me in that suffocatingly domineering way, just like five years ago—suddenly appearing in my life, surrounding me with his charm until I could see nothing but him.
I shook my head, closed the computer, and got up to wash up in the bathroom. But when I opened the closet for pajamas, I froze.
Where was that silk nightgown? My favorite one—champagne colored, fabric soft as flowing water. Last week it was hanging right here. I remembered clearly because I'd planned to wear it to sleep this weekend.
But now it was gone.
I started searching through the entire closet, taking out clothes one by one to check.
Nothing.
And those pieces of underwear. My few black lace panties, my most frequently worn light blue cotton bra—all missing.
My hands started shaking. This wasn't forgetfulness. I couldn't have misplaced three items simultaneously. Someone had been in my room. Someone had taken my things. My breathing quickened, my chest felt compressed.
I rushed to the window, checking the locks forcefully. The door lock was fine—no signs of forced entry on the window frame. I carefully examined the window edges, even running my fingers along them, searching for any evidence of tampering.
Nothing. Not a trace.
What about the front door?
I ran to the entrance, turning on all the lights. The security door lock was new—I'd replaced it last year, specifically choosing the safest model. I checked the keyhole—clean, no signs of picking. I examined the floor by the door for strangefootprints.
Nothing.
I leaned against the doorframe, my legs weak. How was this possible? How could someone slip into my apartment unnoticed, take my things, and leave no trace?
Unless... unless he had a key. Or he didn't need one.
I thought of those flowers. The flowers that appeared punctually every morning. No one saw who delivered them, no one knew how they got in. This person, whoever he was, had some ability I couldn't comprehend.
A tall figure flashed in my mind—deep green eyes, impossibly perfect features.
"No," I whispered, as if convincing myself. "Not him. It can't be him."
I forced myself to calm down. Maybe I was misremembering? Maybe I'd put those clothes somewhere else?
Yes, that had to be it. I'd been so busy lately, work stress was high, caring for Stella was exhausting—memory lapses were inevitable. Maybe I'd taken that nightgown to the dry cleaner last week and just forgot. The underwear might be in some corner of the house. I'd look for them later.
It had to be that.
I comforted myself this way, forcing myself to go shower. Warm water flowed over my body. I closed my eyes, but those white dahlias kept appearing in my mind.
