The clatter of the garbage truck jolted Eliana from a half-dream—half because she'd barely slept at all. It was 6:42 AM, and her body had woken before the alarm, a habit carved out of too many years of responsibility.
She lay still for a moment, curled under a thin blanket on the floor beside Jasmine's bed. Her sister was sound asleep, face nestled into the pillow, her breathing shallow but even. The girl had barely eaten the night before, another flare, another sign that time was a luxury Eliana could no longer afford to waste.
She rose quietly, bones aching from the hardwood floor, and padded to the kitchen, the fridge was almost empty.
She stared at the last two eggs, the corner of a stale loaf, and half a bottle of orange juice. It was enough for Jasmine, Eliana didn't even feel hungry anymore.
She cooked in silence, thoughts racing. A new canvas waited in the studio—a commission she hadn't technically been paid for yet, but if she finished it by noon, the client might transfer half. She needed that half desperately.
By eight, Jasmine was awake and nibbling toast at the table, bundled in one of Eliana's oversized sweaters.
"You gonna paint today?" Jasmine asked, voice raspy.
Eliana nodded. "I've got to. Rent's due next week."
"You said that last week."
Eliana smiled faintly. "Then I guess rent is still due."
Jasmine tilted her head. "You look tired, like extra tired."
"Good. I was trying to go for haunted chic."
Her sister rolled her eyes, but her smile held a flicker of warmth. For Eliana, that was enough.
By mid-morning, she was knee-deep in her studio work. The painting was of a ballerina mid-spin—one foot rooted in shadow, the other flaring into light. A metaphor maybe too obvious, but the client had asked for something beautiful, something feminine something that felt like strength.
She didn't know what strength looked like anymore.
She worked through lunch, barely pausing to sip water or stretch her legs. Around her, the studio buzzed with quiet chaos—dried brushes, curled-up newspaper for texture, sketches scattered like breadcrumbs across the floor. She forgot herself when she painted. That was the only time she could breathe without noticing the weight of the world pressed into her ribs.
Her phone buzzed again. Another gallery rejection.
That made six this month.
She sighed and shoved it aside. She'd sell it online, maybe post it to one of those freelancer sites where people asked for cheap portraits of their cats. She'd done three last month. One woman had paid in crypto, she still didn't know if she'd been scammed.
Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored it.
Around 2PM, her neighbor knocked. Mr. DeLuca from 3C—retired, sweet, always wore a flat cap.
"Ellie, you've got mail. Got tossed in with mine again," he said, holding up a crumpled envelope.
"Thanks, Mr. D. You still make that spicy soup that burns your eyebrows off?"
He grinned. "You know it. I'll drop some by later if you want."
"Only if you want me crying into my paint again."
He chuckled and shuffled off, humming a Sinatra tune under his breath.
The envelope wasn't from a gallery, it wasn't a bill either. Just a small, cream-colored rectangle with her name handwritten across the front with no return address.
Inside was a folded note:
You're being watched—in the best way.
Keep going.
Her heart skipped. Was it a prank? A scam? Some weird poetry drop?
But the paper was thick, expensive. The handwriting precise, no signature and no explanation, she tucked it into her sketchbook and told herself to forget about it.
That evening, Eliana took Jasmine outside for a short walk just around the block, bundled in scarves and hats. Jasmine needed fresh air, even if she hated leaving the apartment lately. The cold stung their cheeks, and their breath came out in white puffs.
They passed by a florist's window, glowing with fairy lights. Jasmine paused.
"Do you think it smells like spring in there?"
"Only if you have money," Eliana said. "But probably."
A woman with a little dog smiled at them. Eliana smiled back, but her fingers tightened on Jasmine's arm. She hated the way people looked at her sister sometimes—pitying, curious, detached like Jasmine was a tragic page in a book they didn't have time to read.
Back home, Eliana tucked her sister in with hot tea and reruns of an old baking show. Jasmine drifted off mid-episode.
Eliana wandered back to the studio. The ballerina was nearly done. Her foot now stepped from shadow into flame.
She signed the corner and sat back.
She didn't know it yet, but across the city, someone else was looking at that ballerina too not in person—but on a screen, sent by someone who worked for someone who answered to someone else. A man who didn't believe in accidents but a man who noticed everything.
That night, Eliana dreamed of glass towers cracking from the inside, of shadows following her down subway stairs and of laughter that sounded like thunder.
When she woke up the next morning, another cream-colored envelope had been slipped under the door.
What you create says more than words ever will.We see you.
No name, no sender.
Just those words and this time, a phone number written underneath.
She stared at it for a long time, her pulse loud in her ears, something was shifting like a storm gathering at the edge of her life.
And she didn't know whether to run from it…or walk straight into the eye.