The house that once seemed quaint and homey now sits stagnant. Brown patches of grass stain the formerly pristine green of our lawn. Dirt gathers in corners and crevices, and dust visibly lines the window sills from the outside.

But on the front stairs, a flurry of crimson rose petals blows in with the breeze, settling against the door frame.

Always the withered roses.

I don’t know where they come from. I only know when they arrived. The day of my father’s disappearance, these rose petals greeted me at the door.

There is solace in the dead beauty of the dark crimson. I collect them and keep them in a box above my closet.

I don’t know why.

I only know that somehow, they share in the pain of my grief. I hope they never stop coming. And I always wish they would.

I check the mail.

Three more letters wait for me there too. Always from a different city. Always anonymous.

The first is a charcoal drawing of a raven perched on a windowsill. The moon is eclipsed in the photo, and dark, ominous thunderheads line the sky above. A sliver of lightning pierces the center of the image, so real it looks as though it’s split the paper in two.

The eery scene sends a chill up the back of my neck.

The photos are always somewhat abstract. A message that often leaves me bogged down in the onslaught of disordered emotions they evoke. The lines are exacted so precisely. The artistry is pleasing to my eye in a way I can’t explain, except to say that I am drawn to the darkness of these photos.

I am drawn to everything he sends me, and I don’t know why.

I open the next letter, and I am confronted with a recurring sense of déjà vu. It is the same beautiful scrawl, only this time, it is words.

The same words he always sends me- this stalker of mine.

My fingers map over the lines while I try to understand. I haven’t told Luke of these letters. I haven’t told anyone.

I’m not entirely sure why.

Only that it feels private. And I have not yet decided whether they are dangerous or simply innocent flattery.

The third and final letter contains the lyrics of my first song.

I try to imagine the man behind these creations. The lost soul who wanders and listens to my music. He tells me to go back to my roots. He asks if my fingers miss the piano, or do I really prefer being a pop princess instead?

I know what he prefers.

His letters all surround my early works. Before Luke got his claws into me and decided it was better for me to appeal to a younger demographic with an ‘edgier’ sound.

The ink had barely dried on my contract when he started changing the rules of the game.

I was caught. Hook, line, and sinker. The only choice I had left was to adapt. It’s on constant replay inside my head.

I’m a fraud.

A phony.

Everything about me is fake, right down to my smile and the new lyrics I sing.

They aren’t my own. Those are private now. For my eyes only.

And this man doesn’t need to remind me of the things I already know.

I fold up the letters and put them out of sight.

My phone won’t stop ringing.

When I draw a bath and climb inside, I imagine a current sweeping me away. One that could pull me backward- when life was still real and possible.

Luke texts me incessantly. Threatening to drop me in one message while apologizing in the next. When that doesn’t work, he reminds me that I’m under contract. He reminds me of the fines he knows I can’t pay if I decide to stop being his puppet.

Inside of my chest, there is a gaping cavity where my heart used to be. And in the place of my lungs is lead.

I have to go back.

I know I have to go back.

And I will.

On Monday.