Chapter 1: The First Gift

Chapter 1: The First Gift

The silence in Molly’s apartment was a living thing. It had weight and texture, pressing in on her from the corners of the room where the shadows grew longest. It had been a year since Liam’s death, a year since the silence had first moved in, and now it felt more like a roommate than an absence. But lately, something else had joined it.

It started with a smell. A faint, sickly-sweet scent of burnt sugar, like caramel left on the stove too long. It would drift into her small home office, catching in the back of her throat while she tried to focus on the sterile lines of a corporate logo design. She’d check her own kitchen, find the stove cold, and blame it on the neighbors.

Then came the sounds. A soft, dry skittering from the living room, like a mouse rustling through a pile of cellophane. But her building was new, immaculately clean, and the landlord was militant about pests. She’d get up to investigate, her heart a nervous bird against her ribs, only to find the room empty, still, the silence rushing back in to mock her.

Tonight, the haunting was bolder.

Molly sat hunched over her glowing monitor, the silver locket Liam had given her cold against her skin. She traced its familiar heart shape with her thumb, a habit that no longer brought comfort, only a dull, echoing ache. The caramel scent was stronger than ever, thick and cloying. And the sound wasn't skittering anymore. It was a definite, rhythmic crinkling, coming from just beyond the doorway. Crinkle… pause… crinkle…

It’s just the old building settling, she told herself, the lie thin and worn. The pipes. The wind.

She tried to lose herself in her work, clicking and dragging shapes, but her focus was shot. Her eyes, heavy with dark circles, kept darting towards the doorway. The loneliness was a physical chasm inside her, a hollow space that this new, unnerving presence seemed to be seeping into, filling the cracks.

With a sigh of frustration, she pushed her chair back and went to the kitchen to make tea, a small act of defiance against the growing dread. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she flicked on the television in the living room, needing the manufactured cheer of a sitcom to drown out the crinkling. The laugh track blared, unnaturally loud in the quiet apartment.

She carried her steaming mug back to her desk, the warmth a small comfort in her cold hands. But as she sat down, the television clicked off. The sudden return of the oppressive silence was a physical blow. Her breath hitched. The crinkling had stopped.

“No,” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. “I’m just tired. I’m grieving. This is what grief does. It makes you see things, hear things.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, repeating the mantra her therapist had given her, a flimsy shield against the encroaching madness. She was alone. She was safe. She was just… sad.

When she opened her eyes, it was there.

At the foot of her unmade bed, not ten feet from her desk, sat a box. It hadn't been there a minute ago. It was large, the size of a microwave oven, and wrapped in glossy, candy-striped paper—red and white swirls that seemed to shimmer in the dim lamplight. A decadent, perfectly tied velvet bow sat on top, the color of blood.

Molly froze, her mug halfway to her lips. Her mind scrambled for a rational explanation. A delivery? But no one had knocked. The door was locked and chained. A surprise from her best friend, Becca? No, Becca’s brand of care was dragging her on a 5k run, not leaving mysterious, impeccably wrapped packages in her bedroom.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. This was impossible. This was a violation. Yet, she couldn’t look away. In the bleak landscape of her grief, the box was an object of impossible color and vibrancy. It was beautiful.

Slowly, she stood up, her bare feet silent on the worn wooden floor. She approached the bed as if it were a wild animal, her hands trembling. The air around the box was thick with that same caramel scent, so potent it made her feel dizzy. She reached out a shaking hand and touched the velvet bow. It was real. Solid. Cool beneath her fingertips.

Who had left this? And how?

The question was terrifying, but it was quickly being overshadowed by a desperate, illogical curiosity. For the first time in months, she felt something other than the crushing weight of sorrow. It was fear, yes, but it was also a spark of something else. A feeling of being seen.

She tugged at the ribbon, her fingers clumsy. It came undone with a soft hiss, falling to the floor in a pool of dark red. She tore at the paper, the crisp sound loud in the still room. Inside was another box, plain white cardboard. She lifted the lid. And found another, smaller, candy-striped box inside.

It was a game. A nesting doll of a gift. With each layer she unwrapped, her fear receded, replaced by a strange, almost childlike anticipation. Another striped box, and another, each one smaller than the last, each one wrapped with the same impossible perfection. It felt personal, intimate. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble.

Finally, she reached the last one. It was no bigger than her palm, a tiny, perfect cube of red and white. She held her breath as she lifted the lid.

The bottom of the box was lined with a piece of what looked like waxed paper. On it sat a small, sad pile of candies. A half-sucked lollipop, its stick tacky and damp. A few loose jellybeans, their colors faded. A single, misshapen piece of saltwater taffy in a twisted, translucent wrapper. They were used. Discarded. Sticky remnants of someone else’s treat.

A wave of revulsion washed over her, cold and sharp. This wasn’t a gift. It was garbage. A cruel joke.

Then she saw the note.

It was a small slip of paper, folded neatly beneath the pathetic pile of sweets. Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. The paper felt strangely warm, almost damp. She unfolded it. The handwriting was a looping, childlike scrawl, written in a brown ink that looked disturbingly like dried blood. It read:

I know you’re lonely. But you’re not forgotten. Not by me.

The air rushed out of Molly’s lungs. The locket on her chest suddenly felt like a block of ice. This wasn’t a joke. This was a message. The impersonal loneliness of her grief was gone, replaced by the terrifying, specific feeling of being watched. Every moment of her private sorrow, every tear she’d shed in this silent apartment—someone had seen it all. Someone who left garbage as a gift and promises in a childish scrawl.

Thump.

The sound came from the living room. It was soft, but heavy. Not a skittering or a crinkling. It was the sound of something solid shifting. Of weight settling.

Molly’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with terror, staring at the dark doorway. The caramel smell flooded the room, thick and suffocating.

The note slipped from her numb fingers and fluttered to the floor.

She was not alone.