The motel sat at the far end of Clare View Point, just before the road vanished into fog. Its neon-sunlight sign flickered VACANCY in half-light, like a dying heartbeat. Seth parked under the buzzing lamppost, the air thick with the scent of rain and motor oil.
Room 219 — that's what the napkin had said, written in a looping, deliberate hand.
See you soon, Seth.
He'd read it a dozen times. Maybe more. Her handwriting is rather pretty, despite knowing her for a few months. Now, he stood in front of the door, his reflection warped in the rain-streaked window. His pulse was calm — unnervingly so — the kind of calm that came after too much waiting.
He knocked once. Silence.
He tried the handle. It turned easily.
Inside, the room was empty.
The light flickered, catching on dust and cheap wallpaper. A half-drunk cup of water sat on the bedside table, but the sheets were untouched. The air smelled faintly of her perfume — something floral, sweet, and dangerous — but it was fading, like she'd already been gone for hours.
Seth stood still for a long time. His hand curled into a fist. Not from anger — from recognition. He'd been played before. He should have known.
''Oh Sera, you amuse me,'' he says to himself.
Seraphine was never what she seemed.
He sat on the bed, staring at the ceiling. This was deliberate— a message, maybe. Or a warning.
And that's when the memory began to unspool.
He'd first seen her six months ago, before she was Seraphine to him — before he even knew her name.
It had been late autumn, the kind of night when the streets were slick with rain and city lights blurred into watercolor. He'd been sitting in his car outside a café downtown, watching nothing in particular, just waiting for Johnathan Watkins to exit the establishment. The next target
Then she appeared — a flash of yellow was in her arms.
She was carrying a bouquet of sunflowers, laughing at something the barista said, her eyes alive in a way that pulled at something inside him. He didn't move. Didn't breathe. It wasn't an attraction — not at first. It was curiosity. That's what he told himself later.
She walked past his car, humming under her breath, oblivious to how she'd already anchored herself somewhere deep inside him.
For weeks after, he'd see her everywhere — or maybe he looked for her everywhere. At the flower stall near the corner(mostly likely where she worked), at the bookstore on Seventh, at the bus stop where the light hit her face just right.
He started timing his days by her patterns. Morning coffee at eight. She opened the store at nine. Lunch at the same bench by the park. Always reading something — poetry, mostly, small paperback books that looked worn from love.
Once, he caught sight of the cover: Pillow Thoughts.
That was when he started thinking of her differently. Not as someone to watch, but someone to understand.
She fascinated him — her quietness, her contradictions. She smiled, but her eyes never softened. She carried flowers, but her hands bore tiny scars, like she'd pricked herself one too many times.
He didn't follow her out of malice. At least, that's what he told himself. He convinced himself it was empathy — a kind of cosmic recognition. As if he'd found someone else who carried shadows beneath their skin.
And perhaps he had.
Now, in the present, he walked around the empty motel room, touching nothing, yet memorizing everything.
The curtains. The half-open window. The faint trace of lipstick on the rim of the glass.
She'd left all of it for him to find — evidence of presence, proof of absence.
He sat back down on the bed and let the memory pull him under again.
There'd been another time — the night of the storm. He'd followed her out of instinct, nothing more. She'd been walking alone, umbrella in hand, rain catching in her hair. He'd stayed back, always far enough not to be seen, always convincing himself he wasn't really following.
She'd stopped at a crossroads, staring at the traffic light blinking red over and over. For a moment, she looked lost. Fragile, even. He remembered wanting to step forward. To offer her his umbrella. To say something ordinary.
But then she turned — and looked directly at him.
Their eyes met across the rain.
And she smiled.
Not with surprise. Not with fear. With recognition.
That was when he knew: she'd known all along.
Back in the motel, he realized how long he'd been sitting in silence. The room felt smaller now, as if her absence had weight. He should have been angry. But he wasn't. Instead, he felt something closer to awe.
She'd outplayed him. Not by running, but by making him chase what she wanted him to find — his own obsession reflected back at him.
Seth stood, pacing slowly. He thought about her name — Seraphine. It meant "burning one." How fitting.
He thought about the way she spoke, like every sentence was a dare. The way she made him feel seen, even when she was dismantling him piece by piece.
He knew he should leave. That this was a warning, not an invitation. But something inside him — the same part that found beauty in blood and tenderness in ruin — refused.
Because what if she wanted him to follow?
What if the empty room wasn't a rejection, but a test? Gosh he sounded delusional.
He whispered, "You win this time."
He pocketed the napkin with her handwriting and walked out into the rain.
The neon buzzed above him, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. The roads stretched into mist, endless and uncertain. Somewhere out there, Seraphine was watching, waiting, weaving another game.
And Seth — God help him — was already in love with the chase.
That night, he drove without destination, headlights cutting through fog. Every mile felt like a memory. He saw her in everything — the flash of light in puddles, the reflection of passing signs, the echo of her voice in the hum of the tires.
He wondered if she was thinking of him too.
He wondered if she ever did.
But the truth — the one he couldn't bear to name — was that Seraphine had always been ahead. She had seen his fascination, recognized it, and used it. Not cruelly, but knowingly.
Because she understood men like him — men drawn to what they can't save.
And maybe that was her brilliance. Or her curse.
By dawn, he found himself back in the pansie field on the outskirts of Clare View Point. The flowers were closed, heavy with dew, their faces turned toward the first hint of morning.
He stepped into the field, brushing his hand against the petals, feeling the wetness on his fingertips.
He thought of her voice again — that soft, haunting tone. He wondered if she told pansies in her store. Perhaps another visit is due.
He finally understood. It was about the need — that relentless pull toward something that feels like warmth, even when you know it will burn you alive. And he wanted to burn in her warmth.
So he stood there, surrounded by the quiet rustle of flowers, listening to the soft wind whistling as it danced its rhythm. Love is strange. Like the Lofn goddess she brings together unorthodox couples, people who want to taste the forbidden fruit. Seraphine's husband is rather a big problem.