The day at school passed like a blur.
Everyone laughed, gossiped, lived as if nothing in the world had changed — but for me, everything felt strangely hollow.
Heartbreak wasn’t what lingered — it was awareness.
Awareness of how naïve I’d been, of how much of my so-called love was built on a promise made before I was even old enough to understand it.
When the final bell rang, I didn’t want to go home yet.
The thought of the silent mansion waiting for me made my chest feel heavier, so instead, steps carried me toward the small park near school — the one tucked between old houses and a quiet row of trees.
The wind was soft that evening, carrying the faint laughter of children playing near the swings.
Golden-hour light washed over everything — the benches, the cracked pavement, the falling leaves.
For a moment, the world felt calm again.
I sat down beneath the old oak tree and opened my sketchbook.
Drawing was the only time my thoughts slowed down — lines turning into shapes, shapes into small pieces of peace.
Time slipped by unnoticed until the phone on my lap buzzed.
> Unknown Number: You should go home now. It’s getting dark.
Who would send me that?
My first thought was Austin, but no — he wouldn’t.
No one else even knew I was here.
Fingers froze on the screen.
The message wasn’t strange by itself — something a classmate could’ve sent as a joke — but the timing was what unsettled me.
I am not close to anyone in class or even school most of the people I talk to was from Austin's friend group,
but after my break up they stop seeing me all together.
A slow unease stirred in my stomach — families packing up, children dragging their bags, swings creaking in the wind. The sky had turned violet, the light thinning by the second.
The message came exactly when the park started to empty.
If it were one of my classmates, they’d have just walked over to talk instead of sending a text like this.
But no one did.
Suddenly, the park didn’t feel so peaceful anymore.
It felt… watched.
The sketchbook snapped shut in my hands. Steps quickened toward the gate, every shadow suddenly too long, every sound too near.
At the gate, Uncle Denny — our family’s driver — was waiting beside the car.
Relief hit me so fast I almost laughed.
“Miss Flora,” he greeted, opening the door.
“Let’s go home,” the words came out steadier than they felt.
The car pulled away from the curb, streetlights flickering past the window.
The message replayed in my head, its warning clinging stubbornly to the edges of thought, halfway down the road, phone buzzed again.
> Unknown Number: Don’t take Riverway Road. There’s been an accident ahead.
My stomach tightened.
Riverway Road was the shortest route to the Campbell estate — the one we always used.
A frown gathered before reason could. The message shouldn’t have mattered, yet something in my gut whispered otherwise.
The phone slipped back into my bag, though unease stayed.
A turn of the corner proved it right.
Flashing police lights. A wrecked car. Officers redirecting traffic.
Uncle Denny slowed down, frowning. “Looks bad, Miss.”
My hands went cold.
The message had been right.
“Take the longer route,”
He nodded, steering away from the scene.
The rest of the drive was quiet — too quiet.
The kind of silence that hums with questions you can’t bring yourself to ask.
---
By the time we reached the mansion, night had settled deep over the city.
The soft glow of the garden lamps cast long shadows across the driveway, and the faint scent of white roses drifted through the air.
Inside, everything was still.
My parents and sister were still abroad, and the staff had already retired.
The emptiness pressed against my ribs like weight.
I changed, then stood by the window, watching the moonlight spill across the garden.
Everything looked normal — painfully normal — but my pulse wouldn’t slow down.
To quiet my mind, the sketchbook reopened. Pencil against paper — the only familiar rhythm left.
But lines refuse to obey.
Shapes tangled into something else: a silhouette, broad-shouldered, face unclear. The more the eraser moved, the darker the shadow grew.
Flipping to a new page didn’t help. Faint outlines bled through — the same figure, standing just behind.
I blinked, my heart thudding. For a split second, I swore it wasn't just a drawing it was me sitting on that same bench, the shadow of that man standing behind.
Watching.
The pencil slipped from my fingers.
"You're tired," I whispered to myself. "just tired"
when looked out the window,between the hedges and the fountain, something flickered, a shadow, then it was gone.
Security here was tight. The gates were locked. Logic insisted it was nothing.
My reflectionbin the glass stared back, pale, wide-eyed, frightened. and behind that reflection, for just a second I thought I saw another shadow move.
I spun around........Nothing
The silence that followed rang too loud.
---
Past midnight, the phone buzzed again.
This time hesitation come first, but curiosity always wins.
A new message. No text, just an image.
My throat went dry.
It was a photo of Riverway Road, the same place where we'd seen the accident earlier. The picture showed it now sealed off completely, the road broken and under repair, construction lights illuminating the darkness.
The caption beneath it sent another chill through me: "Don't take that road"
The air in my lungs turned thin.
Whoever this was… they knew too much.
Where I’d gone. Which road I’d taken. When I’d left.
Fear crawled beneath my skin, but something quieter pulsed beneath it — the haunting thought that maybe this wasn’t meant to frighten me at all.
Maybe it was protection.
Or maybe that’s what they wanted me to believe.
The phone was turned face-down, but its faint light still leaked through the dark.
Every creak of the mansion sounded alive; every shadow, aware.
Outside, the garden lights blinked once then steadied again.
And somewhere beyond the iron gates, in the depth of shadows, someone stood still watching the window of the girl who couldn't sleep.
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