Lila receives a delivery at her door—an elegant velvet box containing a vintage red dress, perfectly her size. No note. She debates destroying it, throwing it out—but doesn't. She touches the fabric, trembling.
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Part 5: "Velvet Boxes and Cigarette Ash"
Last moment:
[ And watched the ashes curl inward.]
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Lila had barely made it back from the laundromat when the knock came.
Not the buzzer. Not the usual three-rap rhythm from her neighbor who always forgot his keys.
A single knock.
Clean. Deliberate.
She paused, basket still in her hands. Her heart stilled too. She crossed to the door, looked through the peephole. Empty hallway.
But when she opened the door, something waited for her.
A black box. Long, narrow. Wrapped in thick red ribbon.
Velvet.
Her hands were still damp from wringing out her cheap cotton blouses. She hesitated before picking it up, like it might burn. It felt expensive. Too expensive. She carried it inside like it was cursed.
On the kitchen counter, she sliced through the ribbon with her keys.
Inside: red.
Not just red. Blood-red. Silk. Vintage. A dress from another world—cinched waist, off-shoulder, delicate folds that belonged in old Hollywood, not on a broke designer with three unpaid utility bills.
She didn't breathe.
She touched it.
It was soft as sin.
There was no note. No label. No size tag. But she knew—it would fit. Perfectly. Someone had measured her without asking.
Her mind spiraled: Is this from him? From Blackwell? Is this a trap?
The anger rose first. Then the fear.
She nearly shoved the dress back in the box. Nearly walked it out to the trash chute, let the city devour it.
But her hand… her hand wouldn't let go.
Because another voice curled inside her: Wear red.
She turned the dress over in her arms. There—on the hem—barely visible, was a faint trace of ash. Like someone had smoked near it. Or burned something while watching it.
She smelled it.
Faint scent of cedar. And smoke. Expensive smoke.
Cigars.
Her chest tightened.
Still holding it, she walked to the mirror over the sink. Raised the dress to her body, just enough to see it fall across her silhouette.
It wasn't just beautiful.
It was chosen.
That was what terrified her most.
She stared at herself in the mirror, dress pressed to her chest, and whispered aloud to the empty apartment—
"Who are you?"