What would that be?
Anna crept toward her door, glancing around like a ghost might jump out, the way they do in those late-night horror movies she watched under her blanket.
The smell hit her first. It was faint, sweet, floral, and far too expensive to belong in front of her door.
Her eyes widened. Flowers?
She blinked at the bouquet sitting by her door, a small white card tucked between the roses like a secret waiting to be found. Beside it was another package, wrapped like it was a fragile egg.
A sticky note was pressed on top of it.
She leaned down, keeping a cautious distance, like it might explode.
The square note read: “Thought you might be too tired to cook.”
Her brows drew together and she stooped.
“Is that food?” She muttered to herself.
She pressed her palm to
