(Elara's POV)
The next morning, I couldn't stop touching the letter.
It lay on my nightstand, folded and smoothed flat as if I could iron out the meaning behind his words. I hadn't slept. I'd spent most of the night staring at my ceiling, rehearsing what I should have done. What a normal person would've done.
Reported it. Burned it. Blocked out the voice in my head that whispered:
He sees you.He wants you.You're no longer invisible.
I slipped it into the inside pocket of my trench coat before I left for work, heart pounding like it knew something I didn't.
The city looked the same.
But I didn't.
It hit the news by mid-morning.
"Local Woman Found Dead in Apartment, Posed with Lipstick Message on Mirror"
Her name was Valerie Linn. Age 27. Lived four blocks from me. Died between 1 and 3 a.m.
The news anchor's voice was dry, clinical, but the words cut anyway.
"No signs of forced entry. No witnesses. Police say the message left behind may indicate a personal connection."
I stared at the image on the library's news site. Her body blurred. The mirror message not.
YOU'RE NEXT.
My coffee cup slipped from my hand and shattered on the tile.
I should have told someone about the letter then. Should have called the police. Should have run.
But my mouth wouldn't open, and my feet wouldn't move.
The librarian in me said, This is a coincidence.
The woman I didn't recognize — the one waking up inside me — whispered:
It's a gift.
The letters. The attention. The message on the mirror.
Whoever he was, he'd made a statement. Not to the world.
To me.
I spent the rest of the day in a haze, checking the security camera feeds in the back room more often than I should have. I couldn't help it. I felt him in the walls.
Not watching like a stranger.Watching like a lover.
Like someone studying me. Memorizing me.
Preparing me.
I left the library just after seven. It had started snowing again, soft flurries caught in the glow of the street lamps. The kind of night that looked peaceful from the outside. That lied to you.
I walked quickly, keys gripped between my fingers like some fragile kind of armor.
At the corner, a man stepped out of the shadows.
I stopped breathing.
He was tall, sharply dressed, his coat catching in the wind like a knife-edge. Hair dark, face half-lit in gold from the passing traffic.
He looked up at me, and smiled.
Not like he knew me.
Like he wanted to.
"Miss Wynn?"
His voice was smooth, cultured, warm enough to be comforting — too warm.
My heart slammed into my ribs.
How does he know my name?Was he the one?
"Don't worry," he added quickly, stepping back. "I'm not here to scare you. I'm writing a book on obsessive behaviors in public spaces. I've been visiting the archives — I saw your name on the badge. Elara, right?"
He said it like honey, like a secret.
I should've said no. Should've walked away.
But the fear didn't come.
Not the right kind, anyway.
"What's your name?" I asked, softly.
He smiled again. A dimple deepened.
"Caelum."
He walked me to the edge of my street.
Didn't ask for my number. Didn't offer his.
Just looked at me like he already had both.
And when I stepped inside my apartment and locked the door — once, twice, then touched the handle just to be sure — I didn't go to bed.
I took out the letter again.
Then I opened the red drawer at the bottom of my closet.
The scarf was still there. Folded. Soft.
Waiting.
I stood in front of the mirror, wrapped in the red.
The color bled against my skin like something sacred. Or sinful.
And I said aloud, to no one:
"I'm reading you back."