Prepntfs

Sterling stared at the dried flower. He remembered the day he had picked it for her, the day he had broken her favorite vase and hid the pieces, the day he had never said sorry because he was too afraid.

His gaze drifted to the clock. It was nearly midnight. The shop was cold, the fire having died down hours ago. He looked back at the symbols. They were nonsense, really—chaotic scratches. But as the grandfather clock in the corner began to chime the first toll of twelve, the shadows in the room seemed to shift. prepntfs

Not on the screen. In the room.