The first day Serena Hale officially moved into the penthouse, it rained.

The sky hung heavy with clouds, the city below cloaked in mist as fat raindrops streaked the windows of the taxi carrying her and the first load of boxes. She stared out at the familiar chaos of Boston, feeling strangely detached, as though she were watching someone else’s life unfold.

The penthouse loomed ahead, its once-grand facade now a crumbling monument to the past. The building felt like a stranger, and yet, it was hers now—an inheritance that felt as much a burden as a gift.

“Here we are,” the driver said, glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

Serena nodded, her hand tightening around the strap of her bag as she stepped out into the rain. The doorman barely acknowledged her as she struggled through the entrance, juggling boxes and an umbrella that refused to cooperate.

Inside, the lobby was as she remembered: dim, dusty, and eerily quiet. The elevator groaned its familiar tune as it carried her to the top floor, each shudder and jolt making her heart skip.

When she reached the penthouse, she hesitated. The weight of the key felt heavier than usual as she slid it into the lock, the click of the tumblers loud in the silence.

“Home,” she whispered to herself as the doors swung open.

The scent of old wood and disuse greeted her, mingling with the faintest hint of something floral. She wrinkled her nose, chalking it up to the damp air and her overactive imagination.

Serena spent the next several hours unpacking, the rhythm of the task grounding her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. The penthouse was cavernous, its sprawling rooms swallowing her meager belongings with ease. Her boxes looked pitifully small in the vast living room, the towering bookshelves and ornate furniture making her feel like an uninvited guest in someone else’s home.

Still, she did her best to make the space her own. She placed framed photos on the mantle, arranged her modest collection of books on the shelves, and draped a throw blanket over the arm of the couch. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

By the time she finished unpacking, it was well into the evening. Rain lashed against the windows, the city lights below blurred by the storm. Exhausted, Serena collapsed onto the couch, a glass of wine in hand.

She had just begun to relax when she heard it: a faint creak, like the sound of footsteps on old wood.

Her heart leapt, the glass of wine trembling in her grip. She sat up, straining to hear over the pounding rain.

Nothing.

She let out a shaky breath, chiding herself for being paranoid. The building was old; of course it made noises.

But the unease lingered.

The next morning, Serena woke to the faint scent of roses.

It was subtle at first, barely noticeable amid the lingering dampness from the storm. But as she moved through the penthouse, the smell grew stronger, weaving through the air like a ghostly presence.

She checked the kitchen, the bathrooms, even the closets, but found nothing to explain it. No forgotten bouquet, no open window to let in the scent from outside. It was as though the roses were coming from the walls themselves.

By mid-afternoon, the scent had faded, leaving her with more questions than answers. She dismissed it as a quirk of the old building, an inconvenience she’d have to get used to.

But later that day, as she returned from a quick trip to her old apartment to collect more belongings, she found something waiting for her that made her blood run cold.

A bouquet of roses.

They sat on the floor outside her door, their deep red petals lush and perfect, glistening as though freshly plucked. The sight of them stopped her in her tracks, her breath catching in her throat.

Her first thought was of her allergies. She had always been severely allergic to roses, their pollen setting off sneezing fits so violent they left her breathless. Even now, standing several feet away, she could feel her nose begin to itch.

But it wasn’t just the flowers that unsettled her. It was the note.

Nestled among the blooms was a small card, its edges crisp and its surface unmarred. In bold, looping script, it read:

Welcome home, Serena.

Beneath the words was a simple black ink heart.

No name. No signature.

She stared at the note, her mind racing. Who could have sent this? No one outside her immediate circle even knew she had moved into the penthouse.

The itch in her nose grew unbearable, forcing her to retreat. She grabbed a tissue from her bag, sneezing uncontrollably as she stepped back into the elevator.

By the time she returned with gloves and a trash bag, the bouquet was gone.

Her heart pounded as she looked up and down the hallway, but it was empty, the silence oppressive. Whoever had left the flowers had taken them back, as though erasing their presence entirely.

Shaken, Serena locked herself inside the penthouse, her mind racing with possibilities.

A prank? A mistake? Or something more sinister?

The following days passed in a haze of unease.

Serena tried to settle into her new home, but the penthouse refused to let her relax. The scent of roses continued to linger, appearing and disappearing without warning. Her belongings seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking—a book moved from one shelf to another, a sweater she was sure she had left in the bedroom now draped over the back of the couch.

At first, she dismissed it as her imagination. She was under a lot of stress, after all. But as the incidents grew more frequent, it became harder to ignore.

One night, she awoke to the sound of something scraping against the floor. Her heart thundered as she sat up in bed, straining to hear. The sound came again, faint but deliberate, like the dragging of a chair across wood.

Grabbing the nearest object—a lamp—she crept through the darkened penthouse, her breath shallow. The sound led her to the dining room, where she found one of the chairs pulled out from the table, as though someone had been sitting there.

She stared at the chair, her grip on the lamp tightening.

“Hello?” she called, her voice shaking.

No answer.

She checked every room, every closet, every corner, but found nothing.

When she finally returned to bed, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

The final straw came a week later.

Serena had just returned from a long day of errands, her arms full of groceries, when she found another bouquet of roses waiting for her.

This time, they were inside the penthouse.

They sat on the coffee table, their crimson petals vibrant against the pale wood. The sight of them stopped her in her tracks, the grocery bags slipping from her hands.

Her breath came in shallow gasps as she approached the table, her eyes locked on the note tucked among the flowers.

It was identical to the first:

Welcome home, Serena.

And beneath it, the same black ink heart.

Her stomach churned, her mind racing. Someone had been in her home.

Panic surged as she grabbed her phone, her fingers fumbling as she dialled. But as she stared at the note, a chilling thought crept into her mind.

Whoever was doing this didn’t just know where she lived.

They knew who she was.