It started a few weeks ago. The first letter was left on your doorstep, tucked neatly into place like it belonged there. You thought it was a mistake—some mix-up, someone else's note. But then another came. And another. Every one addressed to you, the envelope marked in the same unnervingly delicate handwriting:

'My little princess.'

The words inside were too personal, too knowing. Promises of devotion and admiration spilled across the page, written like the author knew every corner of your mind. At first, you ignored them. Tried to. But they kept showing up, finding their way into places they shouldn't be—your room, your bedside table. You didn't hear anything at night, but the letters were there in the morning. And with them came the sinking realization:

someone's been inside.

It didn't stop with the letters. Things started shifting—a picture frame slightly crooked, a window you swore you'd locked left ajar. Small, almost imperceptible traces that someone had been near. Every creak of the floorboards felt louder, every shadow heavier. The air around you changed, thick with a presence you couldn't see.

Now, another letter sits in your hands. This one feels different. The words press harder, the tone is more frantic, almost desperate. It's not just adoration anymore—it's something darker. A plea. A demand. You don't understand it, but you feel it tightening around you, suffocating and inescapable.

Your heart pounds as questions flood your mind.

Who is this? What do they want? Why do they feel so close?

You know you can't ignore it anymore. Whether it's fear, curiosity, or something you can't even name, you're left with only two options: face the unknown or let it keep creeping closer in silence.