"He knows where I live."

I stare at the envelope on the floor, its edges still curled from where it slid under the door. I didn’t hear anyone knock. I didn’t hear any footsteps on the creaky hallway floors. But it’s there.

Crisp. White. Heavy.

3:12 a.m. My digital clock blinks in the corner. My heart thuds against my ribs, loud enough to make the silence uncomfortable. Portland rain taps at the windows like fingernails.

I stare a little longer, wondering if I should touch it. My fingers are cold. My thoughts are scattered. Still, I step forward, squat, and pick it up.

The envelope is thick. No return address. No branding. But my name is printed in neat, serif font:

AMIRA DALEN

I blink.

A chill runs through me.

I don’t order things. I don’t receive letters. I don’t even tell people where I live—not unless I trust them. And I don’t trust anyone.

A soft knock jolts me. I spin.

It’s Talia, my neighbor. Wrapped in a hoodie, cradling a mug of instant cocoa.

"I saw something slide under your door," she says. "You okay?"

I hesitate, then open the door a little wider. "This. It just appeared."

Her brows pinch. "Looks expensive. You gonna open it?"

"Not sure."

"Might be good news."

I shake my head and mutter a thank you. She offers a sleepy smile, turns, and disappears down the hall.

I shut the door.

Twice.

Back inside, I sit cross-legged on the floor of my tiny studio apartment. Surrounded by scattered sketches, broken pencils, and old takeout boxes. My paint-stained apron is still draped over the edge of the sofa.

I open the envelope.

There’s only one sheet inside.

My eyes dart over the words.

Exclusive Contract Offer

From: Vale Gallery, Portland

To: Amira Dalen

Solo Exhibition Opportunity: Fully Sponsored.

My breath catches.

Vale Gallery?

I read it again, slower this time. It’s not fake. It’s printed on thick stock paper. The kind that smells like ink and power.

Vale Gallery is not the kind of place that reaches out to artists like me.

It’s the most prestigious private gallery in the city. The kind that doesn’t advertise. The kind that makes careers. The kind that never contacts people.

I never submitted my work there.

I never even tried.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Congratulations, Miss Dalen. I look forward to meeting you. I trust you’ll make the right decision.

I drop the phone.

My heart is in my throat. My limbs are stiff.

My gaze drifts to the windows.

The street below is empty.

No headlights.

No shadows.

Still.

Too still.

---

I don’t sleep. My thoughts refuse to let me.

By 5:30 a.m., I’m staring at my ceiling.

By 6:00 a.m., I’m sure I locked the door.

But at 6:02 a.m., the lock clicks.

I freeze.

The handle turns.

My chest constricts.

Someone is inside my apartment.

I grab the pepper spray from my desk drawer and crouch low behind the kitchen counter.

Footsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Then, a voice.

"I didn’t mean to frighten you."

I peek.

A man stands in my living room.

He’s tall. Dressed in black. His coat still carries drops of rain. His hair is dark, slightly tousled, his face angular, handsome, unreadable.

He looks around like he’s memorizing everything.

"Who are you?" I ask, voice sharper than I intended.

He turns to face me fully.

"Cassian Vale."

My breath catches.

No.

No way.

"You broke into my apartment."

"You left the door unlocked."

"I didn’t."

He walks toward a canvas by the window. It’s one I never finished. One I hate. One I never showed anyone.

He touches the corner gently.

"This one. It’s always been my favorite."

My fingers tighten around the spray. "How do you know my work?"

He meets my eyes. "I’ve been following your art for a long time."

I say nothing. My heart pounds so loud I wonder if he hears it.

He tilts his head. "You have questions. That’s good."

I don’t ask any.

He steps closer. Slowly. Carefully.

"Your fear is unnecessary, Amira. I would never hurt you."

"You’re trespassing."

He pauses.

Then, he pulls something from his coat pocket.

A second copy of the envelope.

"I meant every word. You belong in the gallery."

"I never applied."

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

"You didn’t need to."

He sets the envelope down on my desk. "Your exhibition opens in two weeks."

"I never agreed."

He shrugs. "It’s already in motion."

I take a step back. He doesn’t follow.

"Why me?" I whisper.

He studies me, then says something that makes my stomach twist:

"Because you’re the only artist who paints things she can’t remember."

My mind stumbles on that line. I want to ask what he means, but my throat closes.

He glances down at the sketch on my desk—the one with the shadowed figure I’ve drawn a hundred times, never knowing who he was.

He touches the edge gently.

"You’ve been remembering pieces. I see it in every line you draw."

I stare at him.

"We’ve met before, haven’t we?"

Cassian only nods once.

"But you don’t remember it yet."