After hearing he mention one of greatest weakness i become weak in heart, my hand trembled my knees hurt I looked
Anna's hands trembled as she unfolded the brittle parchment. The scent of oak drifted up again, thick and unsettling, dragging her mind back to the shadow of the man who had whispered to her last night. She had buried one letter already, hoping it would bury the nightmare with it. But here it was another. A book had led her to it, a strange volume titled *The Feelings*, slipped unnoticed between dusty spines in that forgotten corner of the library.
The handwriting sprawled like claws on the paper, sharp yet elegant. The rest of the letter
My mother of mystery,
You still play at silence. You send me your neat little letters, pretending you can hold the pen and not spill yourself in ink. But you forget you've already written me. Every shadow I carry, every word I utter, was first born from *your* hand.
And yet, you denied me even a name. What am I to the world but a shade, a villain without christening? How cruel you are, Anna yes, Anna, do not flinch I know your name behind the veil of A.M. Harrow. You dressed me in sins but gave me no soul, no feeling.
So I ask you do you wish to feel, lady of ink?
Do you wish to taste the sharp edges of what you denied me?
You speak of sorrow in your stories, yet you bury your own. Richard. Yes, Richard. Do you feel the tremor of his name in your bones still?
I do not want your coin, your reputation, or even your pity. I want you to live inside the storm you so carefully penned for others. And you will, Anna. You *will.*"
Anna's breath caught in her throat. The name Richard scorched through her like a lash. *Richard—* no, she had not heard it in years. She swallowed hard, folding the paper so quickly it nearly tore.
"Bloody hell…" she whispered under her breath, voice trembling. She pushed the letter away from her as though it might burn her fingers. "This is madness… it cannot be real, it cannot ..
Her chair scraped against the floorboards as she stood abruptly, pacing the small parlour. Outside, London's morning fog pressed against the window, dull and ghostly. The world felt dimmer, as though the letter itself had swallowed the light.
Yet even as she pressed her palm to her lips, something inside her stirred. Not fear alone though it was there in abundance but the twisted tug of curiosity. The way his words dripped with knowing, with ache. The way he said *my mother of mystery it was deranged, yes, but there was something almost… intimate in it.
"No, no, Anna," she muttered sharply to herself, shaking her head. "You cannot entertain such thoughts. He's deranged. Utterly deranged. A stalker, that's all."
But she could not deny it the mention of Richard made her knees weak. How did he know? She had *never* spoken of him, not to her family, not even to her closest confidantes. Richard's death was her secret wound, stitched tightly and buried under years of silence.
Her hands tightened around the folded paper. "What do you want from me?" she whispered. "What are you going to do?"
As though the letter had ears, her eyes flickered back to the final line written in bold ink, underlined once with violent flourish:
**"Do as I say, and you will live. Resist me, and I will unmake you piece by piece. Your choice, lady of ink. But mark me well I am watching."**
The words hung in her chest like a death sentence.
She pressed her back against the mantel, staring at the fire that had long since gone cold. The silence in her small townhouse seemed to roar louder with every heartbeat. He wanted something but what? And worse, how long could she hide behind *A.M. Harrow* before he tore that mask away completely?
Her teaching class later that day felt like a hollow act. She stood before her students, chalk in hand, lips moving, but her mind was still trapped in the oak-scented nightmare. Every time a shadow passed the window, she flinched. Every laugh from the street below carried menace.
Afterward, she found herself whispering into the empty air as though the villain could hear her. "Why are you doing this to me? What is it you want? Tell me plainly, for heaven's sake!"
The answer came only in memory, in the hiss of his words from the party: *You made me, Anna.*
When she returned home, she sat at her writing desk, ink trembling at the tip of her quill. The decision weighed on her like iron chains. Should she write him back? Should she ignore him and hope he would vanish like a fever dream?
"No," she muttered aloud, her accent cutting crisp through the quiet. "No man real or imagined has the right to torment me so. He cannot think I'll bow to his whims."
Yet even as she said it, her hand slid across the paper, scrawling the beginning of a reply:
*"If you are real, then you must prove it. Otherwise, you are but a shadow chasing smoke. Leave me be, or come into the light."*
She stopped, staring at the unfinished line, her chest rising and falling fast. To write back was to invite him closer. But to stay silent was to surrender to his threats.
Anna pressed the quill down until the ink bled thick onto the page. "God help me," she whispered, "for I fear I've already stepped into his game."
The oak scent lingered in her mind, heavy, suffocating, but beneath it all pulsed something far more dangerous an unwilling, shameful pull. The villain terrified her, yes. But he was also… listening. Watching. Speaking to parts of her no one else dared touch.
And that thought alone made her shiver more than any threat could.
She left the library with a heavy heart of fear confusion the letter the book The feelings is with her and people crowd and laughing drinking living, even though people hide their everything everyone has their own battle to fought , so do I,
Lady Anna Walked to her home , bought a flower of white roses and went to her mantion.... Whitford