The words came slowly at first—hesitant, like they were wading through grief and fire just to reach the page. But soon, the rhythm returned.
Steady. Sure. A reflection of everything stirring in her chest.
Starting over. It isn’t about leaving.
It’s about daring to believe that the past doesn’t own you.
The cracks don’t define you.
That trusting again isn’t foolish.
It’s brave.
Her hand hovered,pen tip catching slightly against the paper. She stared at the last line, and for a moment, she let herself believe it was true.
But the truth had sharp edges.
Her fingers drifted to the small, pale scar that curved along her palm—a wound long healed, but never forgotten. Trauma nursing had been her lifeline until it wasn’t. The weight of relentless emergencies, of loss and pressure… and Chad. The manipulation. The way he made her doubt herself. And then the roses, one after another, in places that shouldn’t have made sense. Her locker. Her windshield. Her porch. The back door of Dot’s.
They hadn’t stopped for weeks.
Silent. Chilling. Deliberate.
Each rose had arrived without warning, without explanation—perfect, crimson, and always alone.
A beautiful threat.
They haunted her. Their scent. The precision. The silence that followed.
New York was supposed to be a reprieve. A reset. But she knew better than to believe safety came from distance.
You don’t outrun this.
You survive it.
Moment to moment.
Breath to breath.
She didn’t hear the knock at first.
Knock. Knock.
The pen slipped,a streak of ink cutting diagonally through her last line.
She froze.
Her eyes darted to the door, then the clock. It was after midnight.
Knock. Knock.
Too soft to be urgent.
Too precise to be innocent.
Her breath stilled in her throat.
She rose slowly, fingers curling around the heavy brass candlestick she kept near the entry. A leftover habit from West Virginia.
