Eliana slammed the door shut behind her, her hands shaking as she turned the lock.
Her apartment was dark.
Silent.
She tossed her bag down and stepped forward—then froze.
Flowers.
Dozens of them.
Arranged on every surface. Some still fresh. Some beginning to wilt.
Her stomach dropped.
She backed away immediately, heart hammering in her chest. This wasn't normal. She hadn't ordered anything. She hadn't told anyone she was coming home tonight.
Her skin prickled.
She grabbed her keys and left—shutting the door behind her, breath uneven.
She rushed to her car, got inside, and locked the doors with shaking fingers. Her hands were still cold, her pulse thundered in her ears. She gripped the steering wheel and tried to breathe. In. Out. In again.
But the image of all those flowers—unexplained, eerie—lingered like a shadow. Her throat tightened as she pressed her forehead to the wheel, fighting the urge to cry or scream or both.
