Then he saw it.
The bracelet.
Resting in its usual dish. Waiting.
He unfastened the clasp, and laid it back exactly as before. Except now, it was open.
A gentle nudge.
A subtle shift.
Not to scare her.
Only to remind her: nothing is as secure as she thinks.
His gaze landedon the perfume bottle?—
barely half full.
The scent he associated with her—floral, shadowed by warm vanilla.
Delicate and defiant.
Like her.
He stepped closer, fingertips grazing the glass.
Soon, it would run out.
He’d make sure she never noticed when it did.
One day, a new bottle would appear.
Wrapped in careful elegance.
Identical in shape and label—except it would carry his signature too.
A note in the base, a trace only he would recognize.
She’d wear it without question.
And every time she did, she’d carry him with her.
On her skin. In her wake.
Marked.
Slidinginto the hall again felt like stepping out of ritual.
But the message had been delivered.
The journal, tilted.
The bracelet, unclasped.
The fading bottle.
Threads unraveling, quiet and patient, from the fabric she thought would hold.
