Still.
She turned the key in the latch, pushed open the door, and entered her cottage—sand on her shoes, something foreign twisting in her gut. She left the porch light on.
She foundthem after the wine. Half a glass in, barefoot, and finally unbraiding the snarl in her hair after a day that clawed at every nerve ending and still somehow asked for a smile at checkout.
Glass in hand, she wandered out onto her back porch, intent on basking in the salty sea breeze from her hammock—and froze. At the top of the steps, on the sandy welcome mat she never seemed to have time to shake out, sat… flowers.
Sort of.
A wilted bouquet, bound with gold ribbon. The kind florists saved for Valentine’s Day sales or local pageant queens.
Lena blinked, the alcohol dimming her first instinct—until awareness kicked in the butt.
The flowers were dead.
Not just dry. Not decorative. Dead. Browned rose petals curled back like bruised paper, crispy as old leaves. No card. No scent. No recent life.
She stepped out, the wooden slats refusing to creak beneath her—as if the porch also didn’t want to acknowledge the offering.
Who would leave this? Some romantic Picasso with a head injury?
Her body moved before her brain caught up—squatting to examine it, heels off the ground, one hand grazing the ribbon with the reluctant curiosity of someone poking a cursed object in a movie. It wasn’t frayed. Not old. Just… wrong. Like someone had tried to send a message in flowers, then got bored halfway and Googled “local funeral arrangements” instead.
She straightened, palms tingling. She exhaled and forced a chuckle. “Look, if this is a metaphor, I officially get it.”
The chuckle fell flat, and the breeze didn’t answer.
She left the bouquet where it lay—some part of her too stubborn to let it win. She hurried back inside, wine glass abandoned on the table, and shoved the deadbolt across with her shoulder.
Everything seemed louder. The fridge hummed too sharply. The ceiling fan clicked like distant footsteps. She grabbed her phone from the couch, woke it up, and stared at it for a long moment before swiping into text messages.
DAVID:
You okay? Seismic shift in the server room. Thought I felt you roll your eyes from here.
Her lips twitched. She hovered her fingers over the keyboard. She should reply.
Yes.
Fine.
No big deal.
Something’s… wrong.
She locked the phone instead.
Later, when she could explain it with enough sarcasm to hide her terror, when she was thinking about something other than her name whispered through the phone or her broken shells or dead flowers without a card. It wasn’t worth sounding the alarm. Not yet. Maybe later…
Her bedroom floor creaked underfoot. She checked the closet. Checked it again.
Just nerves. She slid under the covers like she could will her body to believe it.
She didn’t turn off the lamp.
Outside, the wind whispered secrets through the palm fronds.
Inside, Lena lay still, trying to convince herself she wasn’t listening for footsteps that never came. In the hollow stillness between ocean breezes and heartbeats, a single thought pulsed louder than the rest:
