(Caelum's POV)
They always flinch the first time they read it.
The moment their fingers tremble over the paper. The brief pause before they reach the end. The flicker of fear that dances behind their eyes like a candle about to go out.
But not her.
Elara Wynn didn't flinch.
Not in the way most do.
She went still — beautifully still — like prey that knew running would only make it worse.
I watched her from the camera tucked into the corner ceiling vent, half-concealed behind an ornamental molding no one had dusted in years. Not even the librarian noticed it — and she noticed everything. She was a creature of detail, of small, careful rituals.
She blinked once. Folded the letter. Slipped it into her coat.
Not a word. Not a sound. Not even a glance toward the exits.
My pulse thrummed, slow and heavy.
She didn't run.
She read me. She heard me.
And that meant she was ready — or at least, becoming ready.
It was always a risk, the first letter. Timing had to be perfect. Too early, and they dismissed you. Too late, and they'd already hardened. But Elara… Elara was soft in all the right places. Not weak — no, never that. She was vulnerable. Vulnerability is honest. Pure. Unfiltered.
And it's so easy to slip inside.
I leaned back in the old armchair in my studio apartment, lights off, screens glowing. The footage from the library streamed across three monitors. One looped the desk. Another, the stacks. The third was frozen on her face — that exquisite moment of stillness, her lips parted just slightly.
A face you wouldn't notice in a crowd. Mousy. Pale. Forgettable.
That's what made her perfect.
Elara didn't demand attention — she carried it, quietly. She absorbed the world rather than performing for it. She folded in on herself, waiting for someone to unfold her.
And I would.
I already had.
I first noticed her nine months ago, tucked into the corner of the same café every Tuesday, always with a book in her hand and earbuds in, but no music playing.
A woman who pretended to shut out the world just so she could keep listening to it.
She was cataloging people, moments, movements — just like I was.
She didn't belong anywhere. She lived like a shadow trying not to touch anything real. And yet… she always wore perfume. Faint. Familiar. Amber and ink.
It wasn't for anyone else.It was for her.But now it was for me.
I stood, walked to the far wall where I kept her collection — not of things. I wasn't that kind of monster.I collected details.
Printouts of her library schedule. Receipts from her favorite bakery. A phone bill she thought was private. Photographs of her door lock from every angle. Screenshots of every social post she'd ever deleted — even if she hadn't shared them.
The red scarf was still there, tucked into the shadowbox frame behind glass. She hadn't worn it in four years. But she kept it, neatly folded. I knew what that meant.
Keepsakes are weakness.
Keepsakes are doorways.
She didn't know it yet, but Elara had already let me in.
A soft beep.
The motion alert flickered on one screen.She was leaving the library.
I leaned closer.
Her coat was too big for her. She held it closed like armor. The wind tossed strands of her hair into her face. Her eyes didn't scan the street, didn't check for danger. She was alone, but not alert.
It wasn't that she trusted the world.
She simply didn't believe it would notice her enough to hurt her.
She'd learn.
Not yet. But soon.
I opened a drawer beside me and took out a small, velvet box. Inside: a ring. Obsidian black. Too large for her, intentionally.
It wasn't for wearing.
It was for binding.
I closed it carefully and whispered to no one:
"She's the one.""She'll come to me.""And when she does… I'll never let her go."
Somewhere, in her quiet little apartment, she was unfolding the letter again.
Reading me.
Touching the words I wrote.
Imagining the hands that wrote them.
She didn't flinch. She didn't scream. She didn't hide.
That made her more dangerous than any of them.
And infinitely more precious.