The next morning started off totally normal. Eggs, coffee, half-hearted job search. My laptop had ten tabs open: two job postings, one used book listing, and seven Wikipedia pages about vampire folklore. Purely for entertainment... probably.

Halley texted to say she wanted to go thrifting on Ottawa Street. I declined, claiming a headache, but really, I needed time to think. Something about those four—it wasn't just coincidence anymore. They had shown up twice in one day. And now they lived across from me. It was like the universe had handed me a plotline and said, "Here. Deal with this."

I needed fresh air, so I climbed out the window onto the rooftop. It wasn’t exactly safe, but it was mine. My little escape. The roof was slanted and covered in decades-old shingles, but I’d been sitting out there since high school. I laid back against the sun-warmed tiles and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, there was a note on the windowsill.

It hadn’t been there before.

The handwriting was looping, clean, weirdly elegant:

Roses are a message. Check your window box.

I blinked. What the—

I turned and saw them. Black roses. At least two dozen, bundled in velvet ribbon and tucked into my tiny flower box. There was a card: Happy (real) birthday. – A.

Alexander? That was bold.

I reached for them slowly, as if they might vanish. They didn’t. They smelled sweet, not rotten or artificial. I brought them inside and set them in a mason jar.

That night, I left my curtain slightly open again. Just enough.

This time, he waved first. Just a slight flick of the fingers. Then he held up a notebook. I grabbed mine. A pen. A game was starting.

We wrote back and forth for over an hour—holding up pages to the window. It was strange and awkward at first, but then it turned into something else. It felt like passing notes in high school, but we weren’t kids anymore.

We talked about music. His taste was surprisingly poetic—old rock, industrial ambient stuff, and apparently, a weird love for film scores. I told him I was into indie folk and horrorcore rap, which made him raise an eyebrow.

Then he asked what scared me.

I held up a page: Losing control.

He paused. For a long time. Then scribbled something. Held it up.

Same.

I didn’t sleep much that night.