Mary enters her room and finds a letter. When she opens it, she sees very elegant writing and begins to read.
Hello, my dearest Mary.
I have not forgotten you—not even once. How sweet it is to see you again, even after that accident. And how fortunate that you are now in a place they call “safe.”
But tell me… do you still remember me?
With all devotion,
Your #####
Mary stared at the letter for a long while, her hands shaking. Then—rip. The paper tore down the middle, then again, until only scraps remained. She threw them into the trash with the others.
That crazy woman again… she whispered to herself. This is the tenth letter… always smeared with blood… what’s her problem?
Her chest tightened, breath uneven. She pulled out her sketchbook and began to draw, quick strokes forming the shape of an angel. Wings stretched wide, a faint smile on its face—but the sight made her heart ache. With a sudden motion, she shut the book, ripped the page free, and shoved it into the trash.
She lay back on her bed, arms folded over her chest as if to hold herself together. The ceiling stared back at her, blank and merciless.
Hm…
Her mind drifted where she didn’t want it to go—the past. Old memories, faces she couldn’t forget, voices she couldn’t silence. A shadow that felt too close, too real, like it was still watching her.