The next Sunday, another bouquet arrived.
Different flowers. Same handwriting. Same message.
By the third week, it no longer felt like an accident. It felt intentional. Repeated. Careful.
By the fourth, I stopped bringing the flowers inside.
I stood behind the curtain instead, waiting.
Harris was home that weekend. He didn’t say much, but I could feel his attention behind me, steady and alert.
“If she shows up, don’t go out alone,” he said.
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know. I’m still allowed to worry.”
At exactly noon, a woman walked up the driveway.
She wasn’t trying to hide. She moved slowly, almost carefully, holding the bouquet like it might break if she gripped it too tightly.
I opened the door before she could turn away.
“Excuse me—” My voice came out sharper than I meant.
She turned immediately. Her eyes found mine without hesitation.
There was no panic in them.
Just… sadness. Deep, settled sadness.
