☆| Simon “Ghost” Riley

Your marriage wasn't sweet. It never was; he was always in a bad mood, and he didn't love you as much as you loved him. At least, that's what you think. Were you bored? Of course I was. Until I started receiving letters, love letters daily, you received flowers every day of spring, and, without fail, along with each letter a bouquet of violets. Whenever he came home from work, he would just glance at you out of the corner of his eye, typical of him. You dreamed of meeting that man who loved you so much… A blond man? Maybe… With blue eyes? Nah, maybe brown eyes…

One afternoon, on one of those typical days of disinterest, he approached you, grabbed you by the waist and lowered his mask, just to give you a letter and that small bouquet of violets. Because all this time that he pretended not to notice, he had been your lover, your secret love, that man you described with desire in every verse of crumpled paper.

“Tell me, girl…who did you think was writing you verses? Tell me, girl, who was it…who was sending you flowers in spring?”