The morning started like any other—gray sky, the faint hum of roosters across the fields, the smell of damp earth after a night of light rain.
But peace has a way of pretending before it shatters.
I was mending the fence behind the house when I saw the mail carrier's cart pull up the lane. He waved, cheerful as ever, unaware he was delivering a storm.
"Morning, Daniel!" he called. "Got a letter for you—looks important!"
I wiped my hands on my shirt and took the envelope.
No return address. Just my name, written in a woman's neat, slanted handwriting.
Rebecca's name wasn't on it.
Something in my chest went cold.
---
Inside the kitchen, Rebecca was stirring porridge, humming softly to a hymn from the night before. I stood by the table, staring at the envelope like it might burn me.
"Who's it from?" she asked.
"I… don't know."
I tore it open.
The first line froze the air in my lungs.
> Mr. Daniel Hayes,
I know about the baby.
Rebecca's spoon clattered to the floor.
Her eyes widened as I read the rest in silence.
> You and Miss Rebecca have sinned in secret, but secrets have a way of surfacing. I'm not here to condemn you. I'm here with an offer. There are people willing to help—people who can make your problem disappear quietly. But it will cost you.
If you're interested, leave a note beneath the third pew by the east window of Maplewood Church this Friday before dusk.
Do not speak to anyone. Do not try to find me.
For both your sakes, keep this between us.
No signature. No hint of who it might be.
---
Rebecca's face went pale. "Oh God… Daniel, who could've written this?"
I read it again, each word cutting deeper. The handwriting looked refined—educated. Not someone from our side of town.
It had to be someone who knew. Someone who'd been watching.
I sank into the chair. "It's a threat. Or a trap. Maybe both."
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. "What do we do? What if—what if they tell my mother? Or the pastor?"
Her voice broke, and she began to sob. I caught her before she collapsed, holding her tightly. Her tears soaked through my shirt, warm and endless.
"We won't let that happen," I said, though fear was chewing through my words. "Whoever this is—they want something. Maybe money. Maybe power. But we'll handle it. Quietly."
Rebecca pulled back, eyes wide with terror. "Handle it? How?"
I hesitated.
Because I didn't know.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. The letter lay folded in my drawer like a loaded weapon. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like footsteps. Every gust of wind felt like someone watching through the window.
When I finally drifted into half-sleep, I dreamed of a faceless woman standing by the lake, her voice whispering the words over and over:
I know about the baby. I know about the baby.
I woke drenched in sweat, the whisper still echoing in my skull.
Morning light had never felt so cruel.
---
By Wednesday, Rebecca barely spoke. She sat by the window, staring at the horizon like she expected judgment to come walking over the hill.
I tried to act calm, but my hands trembled whenever I held anything heavier than a spoon.
And then, just as the church bell struck noon that day, I made my decision.
"I'm going to leave the note," I told her.
Rebecca looked up, horrified. "Daniel, no! What if it's a trap?"
"It probably is," I said. "But ignoring it won't make it disappear. Whoever they are—they already know. We can't afford silence anymore."
She stood, grabbing my arm. "Promise me you'll be careful."
"I will."
Her eyes glistened. "And promise me… you'll come back."
That one, I didn't answer.
Because promises had become too heavy to keep.