Arranged Marriage; When love becomes duty, trust can become deadly.

The rain had already started when I realized I was being followed. At first, I thought it was just the echo of my own footsteps — the uneven slap of shoes against the wet pavement — but when I turned the corner and heard it again, closer this time, my pulse began to race. The street was empty. Too empty. A few lamps flickered in the fog, stretching my shadow across the puddles, thin and shaking like my breath. Somewhere in the distance, church bells rang — muffled, far away, as if they belonged to another world entirely. “Petr?” I called out. My voice came out softer than I meant, trembling and small. No answer. Just the hiss of rain. For a moment, I wanted to believe it was Marek. He would never let me walk home alone this late. But Marek’s footsteps were steady — calm, familiar — not this jagged rhythm that stopped every time I stopped. Another turn. Another echo. My fingers tightened around the small box I was holding — the one that had appeared on our doorstep that morning, with no name, no address, just my initials scrawled in messy ink. I hadn’t meant to open it, but curiosity had its own kind of cruelty. Inside were white rose petals. And a doll’s hand. Now, under the yellow streetlight, I thought I saw a figure move — a flash of a coat, a pale face, eyes that knew too much. “Leave me alone!” I shouted. Silence. Then, faintly, the sound of laughter. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t angry. It was worse — soft, broken, like a secret that had finally gone wrong. I ran. The box slipped from my hands, scattering the petals across the road like fallen promises. I didn’t look back — not even when I heard my name carried on the rain. “Nikolka…” The voice was familiar. Once, it had made me laugh. Now, it made my blood run cold.