The next morning, I woke up slowly. My head felt heavy, and my heart was still racing.
For a moment, I thought it was all a dream—the shadow, the hand, the faint perfume. But when I swung my legs over the bed and put my feet on the floor, I saw it.
A small bandaid wrapped around my swollen ankle.
It wasn’t a dream. Someone had been in my room last night.
I remembered the whisper in my ear:
"You are safe now."
I looked at the clock. I had slept too long.
The house was quiet. My phone rang. It was my stepmother.
“I’m out of town,” she said.
"Some work came up. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
A wave of relief passed over me. I was alone for the first time in so long. Finally, I could breathe.
I went to the shower, letting the warm water wash over me. I looked at my bruises in the mirror and changed the bandaid. My ankle still hurt.
I thought about him—the stalker. Why did he help me? Why did he care?
Then I heard a noise. I froze.
Outside the window, on the ledge, was a small box.