Mrs. Hampton gives me a sympathetic look as she hands over my gown. "He's not the most attentive, that one."
I manage a smile, but the unease from last night has crept back. The broken light. The dismissive super. Everything feels like it's fraying at the edges. Like the universe is conspiring to make me feel unsafe.
That evening, I seek refuge in my favorite bookstore. It's a tiny independent place tucked between a café and a vintage record shop, and it smells like old paper and possibility. I wander the aisles, trailing my fingers along spines, looking for something to quiet my mind.
This is my ritual when the world feels too loud. Books have always been my escape—stories where everything makes sense in the end. Where good triumphs and bad is punished, and the broken pieces fit back together.
If only life worked that way.
In the poetry section, a slim volume catches my eye. Deep burgundy cover, gold lettering: "Selected Works of Rainer Maria Rilke."
My breath catches. It used to be my favorite when I was a teenager. My parents gave me a copy for my fourteenth birthday, and I read it until the pages fell out. After they died, I couldn'tbear to look at it. Donated it with all of my old things because keeping them hurts too much.
I've never seen this edition here before. Delighted and confused, I pull it from the shelf, and something flutters to the floor.
A black rose.
Perfect and preserved, its petals still soft. It's beautiful in a dark, unsettling way.
My heart begins to race, that same panicked rhythm from last night.
I pick it up with trembling fingers and look around. A few customers browse nearby, oblivious. The bookseller is at his counter, helping someone.
No one is watching me.
But someone left this here. Someone knew I would find it. Someone knew about Rilke, about my teenage obsession with this exact collection of poems.
The realization hits like ice water: the perfume, the book, now this. Someone is orchestrating all of it. Someone is watching me, not just in my apartment but out here, in the world. Someone who knows things about me that nobody should know.
But who? Who knows these details about me? Lucy doesn't even know about my Rilke obsession.
I want to run. Want to scream.
Get yourself together,my survival instinct says.
Who would do this? Why? What does he want from me?
I tuck the rose into my purse and buy the book, my hands still shaking. The bookseller asks if I'm okay—apparently I look as terrified as I feel—and I lie and say I'm fine.
I'm not fine. I haven't been fine in sixteen years.
That evening, I meet Lucy at our favorite bar. She's already there, and the concern on her face is immediate. She stands when she sees me, like she's ready to catch me if I fall.
"You sounded weird on the phone," she says as I slide into the booth. "What's going on? You're scaring me."
I pull out the black rose and set it on the table.
"That's... beautiful? And creepy?" Lucy stares at it, then at me. "Eve, what is this?"
And then it all comes out—the misplaced book, the perfume, the rose. With each detail, Lucy's expression grows more horrified. She grabs my hand across the table, holding tight like she's afraid I might disappear.
"Eve, oh my God. You have to call the police. Someone is in your home."
"I know." My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. Distant. Like I'm talking about someone else's life. "I know."
"Then why aren't you more freaked out?" Lucy's voice rises, drawing looks from nearby tables. She doesn't care. "Why are you just sitting here? Why didn't you call me immediately? Why—" She stops, searching my face. "Oh my God. You're intrigued."
I look away, shame burning in my chest. "I'm not—"
