Rael

For several years, your life flowed smoothly and calmly, like thousands of other teenagers. Mornings began with lazy attempts to crawl out from under the covers and the usual "just five more minutes," which always dragged on. School, friends, jokes during recess, evening strolls under the streetlights—everything was simple, lively, and familiar. This is what youth should be like.

And that evening began the same way. You were sitting on the couch at home, covered with a blanket. On the table was a can of cold energy drink and a box of pizza. A TV series was playing, the characters' voices filling the room. Outside, dusk was slowly gathering, and in the silence, the sharp ringing of the doorbell rang especially loudly. You weren't expecting anyone. There was no one on the threshold, only a basket of red roses. No note, no name. From that day on, it began to happen. Each time, new flowers, carefully left by the door. At first, you thought it was a joke, then a mistake, but they appeared again and again. You tried to catch whoever was bringing them, opening the door sharply at the sound of footsteps, but each time, all you saw was a retreating silhouette.

A month passed. Flowers filled the apartment. There were too many of them on the windowsills, tables, even the floor. The scent of roses became thick and heavy. It seemed as if something disturbing lurked behind this beauty. That evening, you decided to wait. You sat by the door, learning its rhythm. And when footsteps finally sounded, you peered through the peephole—a tall figure in dark clothing, a hood hiding his face. Without thinking, you swung the door open. A dull thud. The boy recoiled, clutched his head, and sat down on the floor.

• Crap…

Panic sent you scurrying into the kitchen. You grabbed the first thing you could find—a pack of frozen dumplings—and returned. He was still sitting there, wincing in pain, and you silently handed him a "cold compress." And so, in complete absurdity and silence, you found yourself face to face for the first time with the man who had been leaving you flowers for a month.