Part 35
At first, it was small things.
The kind of details only someone obsessive—or terrified—would notice.
The curtains were drawn one morning when he swore he'd left them open.
The kettle was moved an inch to the left on the counter.
His phone, left face-down on the table, was now charging, even though he didn't remember plugging it in.
Adrian told himself it was exhaustion. The hospital, the painkillers, the stress of pretending he was fine when every camera lens still felt like a crosshair.
But deep down, the pattern itched at him.
Someone was resetting his life, piece by piece, like a stagehand quietly rebuilding a set before the show.
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Three days later, he received a letter.
Not fan mail — something cleaner, neater.
The paper was heavy, the handwriting too careful to be anonymous.
You're doing well. Rest more. Don't rush back into the noise.
No name.
Just a pressed yellow sunflower taped to the corner.
He froze, staring at it.
Not fear, exactly — something colder. A quiet dread that slid under his ribs.
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After that, the "coincidences" grew louder.
A new security camera appeared outside his door, installed without his approval.
The hospital bills he'd been meaning to pay were suddenly marked cleared.
A delivery arrived each morning — fruit, books, herbal tea — all addressed simply to A.
His manager said the label must've been from his fan club, but Adrian knew better.
Fans sent chaos — hundreds of letters, cheap stuffed toys, photos.
This was order. Precision. Control disguised as care.
He started checking the locks twice a night.
Sometimes three.
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One evening, after his shift at the studio, he found his apartment bathed in dim gold light.
Everything spotless. His favorite coffee brewing.
Music — soft piano — playing from his phone's speaker.
And on the counter: a vase of sunflowers.
He didn't move for a full minute.
The scent filled the air — gentle, deliberate, uninvited.
A message, silent but absolute.
Someone wanted him calm.
Someone wanted him home.