She thought the roses were a mistake—until the phone in her pocket whispered that someone was watching.
The Prompt
The elevator’s hum was the only sound as she clutched the roses like evidence from a crime scene.
Her pulse hammered against her ribs. The card still trembled in her hand, its neat handwriting far too familiar. She looked again at the door—still locked, the hallway still empty—but the scent of roses was suffocating, sweet as decay. She turned the card over. The back was smeared with something dark—ink… or blood? A sudden buzz from her phone made her flinch. A new text appeared: “Do you like them?” No number. No name. She dropped the bouquet, petals scattering like red fingerprints across the floor. Every sound—the creak of pipes, the whisper of the air vent—became a threat. Someone was close. Watching. Waiting.
Question for readers:
If you were in her place, would you run, call for help, or open the door to face whoever—or whatever—is out there?