For weeks, a single red rose appeared on Margaret’s doorstep each morning — no note, no explanation, just the flower’s silent allure. But when the roses suddenly stopped and a cryptic message appeared, her quiet life turned into a mystery she couldn’t ignore. For weeks, a single rose appeared on my doormat every morning, bringing equal parts delight and unease.
At first, I told myself it was sweet, even romantic.
It had been years since anyone made me feel special, and these roses stirred something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Nine years ago, my marriage ended.
My husband left after an affair, and though he tried to come back later, I couldn’t take him back. I had rebuilt my life, one quiet, deliberate step at a time.
Knitting, volunteering at the soup kitchen, and working at the library gave my days a calm rhythm.
My grown children, busy with their own lives, visited when they could. My friends, especially Patricia, were like family. Life was peaceful.
Predictable.
Now, each morning, when I opened my front door, there it was. A single, perfect red rose.
No note. No explanation.
Just the flower, lying neatly on the doormat.
At first, I smiled when I saw it. Who wouldn’t? “Maybe someone has a crush on you,” Patricia teased when I mentioned it to her.
But as the days passed, the charm faded.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching me. Why didn’t they leave a card?
Why wouldn’t they show themselves? By the third week, the roses weren’t romantic anymore.
They felt… wrong.
I started checking the windows more often, glancing over my shoulder when I went outside. One morning, I found something different. Beneath the rose was a note.
The words were written in small, shaky handwriting:
“You’re not as alone as you think.”
My breath caught, and my hands shook as I held the paper.
What did that mean? Was it a message of comfort?
Or a warning? I shoved the note into my pocket and stepped back inside, locking the door behind me.
All day, I couldn’t focus.
At the library, I kept rereading the note in my mind. Patricia noticed my distraction during our shift at the soup kitchen that evening. “You’re jumpy,” she said, handing me a ladle.
“Something on your mind?”
I hesitated but then told her about the note.
“Patricia, it’s starting to scare me. What if someone’s been watching me?”
Patricia’s expression hardened.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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