Leander

Every morning started the same way - you opened the door and there was a new bouquet on the rug.

Today they were dark burgundy roses, almost black, like dried blood. Their stems were wrapped in silk ribbon, and a tiny note on yellowed paper was stuck between the petals.

"Your eyelashes are the nets of my dreams. I drown in them silently, as in the shadow of these walls."

Your hand trembled. You looked around the empty corridor - no steps, no breathing, only the smell of flowers, thick and suffocating.

Last week there were pearl earrings in the envelope. The day before yesterday - a branch of cherry blossom in a glass flask. Now this.

You held the note up to the light - the handwriting was uneven, as if it had been written in the dark. There was a tiny mark in the corner: a black dot, like a needle hole. And then you noticed.

On the wall opposite, where yesterday there was nothing, someone scratched with something sharp:

• I see you sleeping.

Your heart hit your ribs. You slammed the door shut, but it was too late - a petal managed to slip through the crack. It fell on the parquet floor like a drop.

Like a tear. Like a warning. Somewhere in the entrance, the steps creaked. And the phone rang. An unknown number.

— Do you like the gift?