Mira's POV
The mug slips from my fingers before I can stop it.
I watch it fall like it's happening in slow motion—my mother's blue ceramic mug, the one with the tiny crack on the handle that I've been meaning to fix for two years. It hits the wooden floor of my bookstore and explodes into a dozen pieces.
My hands are shaking too hard to hold anything. That's the problem.
I stare at the broken blue pieces scattered across the floor, and my throat gets tight. Not because of the mug. I have plenty of mugs. It's because of the note I'm still holding in my other hand—the note I found five minutes ago in the margins of an old book.
The note that predicted this exact moment.
"The blue mug will break today. Don't be afraid. I'll bring you a new one."
Signed in elegant handwriting: Yours, Always.
Someone knew. Someone knew I would drop this specific mug on this specific day. Which means someone has been watching me. Watching me close enough to know which mug I use every morning. Close enough to know I've been clumsy lately because I haven't been sleeping.
Close enough to be inside my life without me knowing.
I drop to my knees and start picking up the pieces with trembling fingers. A sharp edge cuts my thumb, and blood wells up, bright red against my pale skin. I don't even feel it. I'm too numb. Too scared.
This is the seventh note I've found in the past two weeks.
The first one appeared in a donated copy of Jane Eyre. I thought it was just something a previous owner had written—people leave notes in used books all the time. But then I read it:
"You read when you can't sleep. Always at 3 AM. Always downstairs in the shop because your apartment feels too empty. I understand that kind of loneliness."
My stomach had dropped to my feet. Nobody knew about my 3 AM reading habit. Nobody. I live alone above this bookstore. I don't have friends over. I barely have friends anymore, period.
Not after what happened three months ago.
I push that thought away before it can drag me down. I can't think about Marcus right now. Can't think about Claire. Can't think about the worst night of my life when my fiancé announced in front of 150 guests at our engagement party that he was leaving me for my younger sister.
Can't think about how everyone watched me fall apart.
Can't think about how I'm still falling apart.
Focus, Mira. Focus on the note. Focus on the fact that someone is watching you.
I finish picking up the broken mug pieces and dump them in the trash. My hands won't stop shaking. I wash the blood off my thumb in the tiny bathroom at the back of the shop, and that's when I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
I look terrible. Dark circles under my brown eyes. Hair piled on top of my head in a messy knot. My grandmother's old cardigan hanging off my thin shoulders. I've lost weight—too much weight. I look like a ghost haunting her own bookstore.
Maybe that's what I am now. A ghost.
The bell above the shop door chimes, and I jump so hard I hit my elbow on the sink. Pain shoots up my arm.
"Mira? You here?" a male voice calls out.
I know that voice. Adrian. My delivery driver.
I take a deep breath and walk back out into the main shop. Adrian is standing near the counter, holding a large box. He's around my age, maybe twenty-eight, with sandy blond hair and an easy smile that makes most women go weak in the knees.
It doesn't work on me anymore. I don't think anything could make me feel anything romantic ever again.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound normal. "That was fast. I wasn't expecting you until this afternoon."
"Got your delivery done early." He sets the box on the counter, then frowns. "You okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine. Just dropped something."
His eyes go to the trash can where the broken mug pieces are visible. "Your blue mug? The one you use every morning?"
My blood turns to ice.
How does he know which mug I use every morning?
Adrian must see something in my face because he quickly adds, "I've delivered here for six months. I notice things. You always have that blue mug sitting on the counter when I come by."
That makes sense. That's totally normal. I'm being paranoid.
But the note knew. The note knew I would break it today.
"Here," Adrian says, pulling a smaller box from his delivery bag. "This got mixed in with your order somehow. Must've been a mistake at the warehouse."
He hands me the box. It's light, wrapped in brown paper with no label. No address. No shipping information.
My heart starts pounding.
"Are you sure this is mine?" I ask.
"Your name's on it. Well, 'Chapter & Verse Bookstore.' That's you, right?"
I take the box with numb fingers. Adrian watches me for a moment, something unreadable in his green eyes, then smiles. "I should get going. Lots more deliveries. You take care, Mira."
He leaves, the bell chiming behind him.
I stare at the box in my hands. Every instinct in my body screams at me not to open it. To throw it away. To call the police.
But I have to know.
I tear open the brown paper with shaking hands. Inside is a white box, and inside that, wrapped in tissue paper, is a ceramic mug. Blue, just like the one I broke. But this one is beautiful—handmade, with delicate gold lettering painted on the side.
The gold letters spell out: "For coffee and courage."
There's a small card tucked inside the mug. My vision blurs as I read it:
"I told you I'd bring you a new one. You're safe, Mira. I promise. Even when you feel most alone, someone sees you. Someone is watching over you. -Yours, Always"
The card slips from my fingers and falls to the floor.
Someone is watching me. Not just watching—predicting my movements. Planning. Sending me gifts.
A stalker.
I have a stalker.
My breathing gets fast and shallow. The bookstore suddenly feels too small, too exposed. All these windows. Anyone could be looking in. Anyone could be watching right now.
I grab my phone with trembling hands, ready to call Sophie, my only friend left in this town. But before I can dial, I see it.
Through the front window of my bookstore, across the street, in the window of the expensive penthouse that was just renovated last month.
A man.
Tall. Dark-haired. Standing perfectly still.
Staring directly at me.
Our eyes meet across the distance, and even from here, I can see his expression. It's intense. Focused. Like a hunter watching prey.
He doesn't look away. Doesn't pretend he wasn't staring. He just stands there, watching me with an expression that makes my skin break out in goosebumps.
Then, slowly, he raises a coffee mug to his lips.
A blue mug.
Just like mine.
My phone slips from my fingers and clatters on the counter. The man in the window—still watching—sets down his mug and places one hand flat against his window.
Like he's reaching for me across the distance.
Like he's been waiting for this moment.
Like he's been waiting for me to finally see him.
My heart hammers so hard I think it might break through my ribs. Questions flood my mind. How long has he been watching? Is he the one writing the notes? How does he know so much about me?
The man drops his hand from the window, and for a second, I think he's going to leave. Going to disappear and leave me wondering if I imagined this whole thing.
But he doesn't disappear.
He turns away from the window, and through the glass, I see him walk toward what must be his door.
He's coming.
He's coming here.
Right now.
And I'm alone in this bookstore with all these windows and a broken lock on the back door that I keep forgetting to fix and absolutely no way to defend myself against a man who's been stalking me for who knows how long.
I should run. Should lock the front door. Should call 911.
But I'm frozen, watching the penthouse door across the street, waiting to see if he really comes out. Waiting to see if this is really happening or if I've finally lost my mind from three months of heartbreak and loneliness.
The penthouse door opens.
He steps out onto the street.
And starts walking toward my bookstore.