Grace didn't sleep.
She sat on the edge of the bed most of the night, the envelope resting on the dresser across the room. She hadn't picked it up again. She didn't need to. The words were already carved into her thoughts.
I'm coming home.
Before sunrise, she went to Belinda's room.
Her daughter slept peacefully, unaware of everything. Grace knelt beside the bed and gently brushed a strand of hair from Belinda's face, careful not to wake her.
"I won't let him hurt you," she whispered.
She wasn't sure if she believed it.
Morning came too fast.
Breakfast felt automatic. Pouring milk. Packing a lunch. Tying shoes. Grace smiled when she needed to, spoke when expected, but inside she was counting exits. Windows. Distances.
She dropped Belinda off at school and stayed in the parking lot longer than usual, watching children disappear into the building. Watching adults she didn't recognize.
Only when the bell rang did she finally leave.
Back home, Grace called the police.
She explained about the envelope. The message. The handwriting.
An officer arrived less than an hour later. He took photos, asked careful questions, promised extra patrols in the area.
"There's nothing we can trace right now," he said gently. "But you did the right thing by calling."
Grace nodded, though the words brought little comfort.
After he left, the house felt hollow.
She locked herself in the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the sound of running water fill the space. Only then did her hands start to shake.
That afternoon, she went to the grocery store.
She needed food. Normal errands. Proof that life was still moving forward.
Halfway down the third aisle, she felt it.
That familiar pressure between her shoulders.
She stopped walking.
Her reflection stared back at her from the glass freezer door—pale, tense, eyes scanning too much. People passed behind her. Shopping carts rolled by.
You're imagining it, she told herself.
Still, she finished quickly and went straight to the car.
As she pulled out of the parking lot, her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Her breath caught.
She didn't answer.
A second later, a message appeared.
You look tired.
Grace's hands tightened on the steering wheel.
She checked the mirrors. The cars behind her. The sidewalk.
Nothing.
Another message followed.
You always forget to eat when you're scared.
She pulled over, heart racing.
"How?" she whispered to the empty car.
Her phone vibrated again.
I told you I was coming home.
Grace's vision blurred.
Then one last message appeared.
And I can see you.