The sunlight filters in through my open window and nds right over my eyes. The warm sunlight is my cue to wake up. I sit upright in my bed, trying to rub the sleep away. I stretch my sleepy limbs, adjusting to muscles regaining their usual strength. I gently sigh, my mind completely at peace. Perhaps it was because the sleep had washed away the sense of danger in my head. Or maybe it simply buried it. I would stay in bed, but since the weekend had started, my mother would pile chores on me again. It's one or the other with her. I barely have enough time to do anything other than work for her.

  As my eyes began to focus on the surroundings, they snagged on my open window. Open? Had I not closed my window st night? How could I have missed that entirely? The feelings that sleep had carefully hidden came bursting forth. When did I open my window? Pure terror seized my entire body. The person who entered my home st night had found my room. My heart clenches in my chest, my vision starts to blur, cold sweat collecting in beads on my forehead.

  They were here. They were here. They saw me. They were here.

  I y frozen in my sheets, paralyzed by fear. The window loomed like a threat. Their shadow felt like a corrupting force, and I was vulnerable. I hadn't realized how bad my fear had gotten until this happened. "My follower" had access to my house, to my room. They could get in and out with whatever they wanted. It was so easy. I hug my knees, curling instinctively into a ball. I try to hide within myself.

  Just what was happening?! Why me? Please...

  My mother walked into my room at that moment, carrying some undry and fussing over how many clothes she had to wash. I look at her, my eyes crazed and filled with tears. She met my eyes with slight surprise and confusion. I suppose she didn't think that her daughter would start crying first thing in the morning.

  "What happened?" she looked at me inquisitively. Probably wondering why her daughter was suddenly losing her mind. She was looking at me full of concern. I doubt it's because I was crying. It's probably because she hoped that I wasn't going insane. Even more work for her.

  I swallow and raise my trembling hand to point at the open window. My mother shrugged.

  "I opened it this morning," she said, "Why? Did a bug get in?"

  My heart thudded loudly as relief washed over me. So she was the one who opened it. They didn't come into my room. I was safe. I look up at my mom, who is still standing by my bed, and I nod softly. She just scoffs and mutters something about how jumpy I am all the time. Maybe if she believed me, she would understand why I can't stand the sight of my own shadow. But of course, my mother never believes a word I say. It's all in your head, and you know it. But dare tell anyone else in town, and I might just die of embarrassment when they ugh! I wished that for once, my mother would put me first before the other people in this damn town.

  I uncurl myself from the ball that I had forced myself into. As she left my room, I pushed myself out of bed, my dark hair falling down my face as I dipped my head to find my slippers. I sit at the edge of my bed for a moment, simply letting my head process everything that just happened. I've never felt so afraid; it was such a raw feeling. Someone had broken into my home, someone who likely wanted to hurt me or use me to satiate their perverse mind. I run a hand through my hair, my fingers getting caught in the small tangles peppered throughout my wavy dark hair.

  In an attempt to push aside my racing thoughts, I stand up to change my clothes. I let my simple white nightgown fall to the floor as I picked up the tattered dress I pced previously on the chair next to my dresser. My mother disapproves when I wear these old clothes. But I keep telling her that if I am to do all the chores she assigns to me, I am certainly not wearing any of the nice dresses that Father buys for us. We were well-off, but we also didn't have too much money to spare. I don't understand the point of always looking presentable to everyone while doing tasks that seem, to the more wealthy, as "mundane." You can never impress them, so why try at all? But for my mom, that is the only thing she cares about. She somehow managed to get into the good graces of several of these wealthy dies, and she intends to keep it that way no matter what it takes. I'm not sure if I should admire or despise that quality about her. The only solution is not question it.

  I look into the dusty mirror above my dresser as I fix my dress and get ready for another long day. As I work my hair into a braid, I pause for a moment to study my face. Its features, my rge, dark, brown eyes, my long and straight nose, my downturned lips, harmonize perfectly on my caramel-colored face. There's certainly nothing special about the way I look, especially not with my messily tucked braid. I appeared just like any other ordinary and unremarkable girl. What could I have done to attract such relentless attention? Whose unwanted gaze had I drawn, and for what reason? I continue to stare into the mirror, lost in thought, until my mother barges into my room again.

  "Will you hurry up? These things don't get themselves done."

  I don't say anything and just roll my eyes. Unfortunately for me, my mom saw that through the mirror.

  "Rolling your eyes at your mother? Is that what you've come to?"

  "Right, okay..sorry mom."

  "Ungrateful child..." She thrust papers into my hands, "That's the grocery list for today. Be quick about it."

  With a nasty gre my way, she smmed my door and exited. I plop down on my chair and lean my elbows on my dresser, sighing as I stare into the mirror once again, wondering why my mother and I were complete opposites. Everyone says that we look almost identical, but our personalities were so opposing it was a marvel that I was even her daughter.

  I froze as I felt cold, a metal brush against my skin.

  What was that?

  I straighten up and look at my dresser. There was a pink rose hair clip resting on my dresser. I brush my fingers across its delicate design. A singur pink rose rested at the center, embedded into an intricate collection of overpping gold and small diamonds studded across both edges.

  This isn't mine. How did it get here?

  I pick up the hair clip gingerly, afraid that I might shatter the beautiful object. I will admit this was possibly the most expensive thing in my house. Had my father spent so much for a mere hair clip? Simply out of impulse, maybe? But certainly, though, one thing's for sure: we couldn't afford this. I flip it around, inspecting it for any clues. Sure enough, there was writing inscribed in the inner band of the clip.

  To my most beautiful flower. Keep it with you, my rose, and you will be safe. ~ Your Admirer

  I drop the clip as though I've been scalded. My breathing gets heavy again. That horrible feeling of fear filled my body. I stumble back, almost falling over my chair. I clutch my chest, trying to physically stop my heart from jumping out of my body. It wasn't my father. He's never inscribed anything in any of the ornaments that he's given me. If he had, he would never have written "Your Admirer" on it. It was my "follower" who had bought this for me. Suddenly, I wanted to throw the beautifully sickening accessory away.. I grab it with the full intention to do so.

  He was in my home. He was in my room. He left this here. He was here, and I didn't know.

  Before I could do i,t though, I paused. The words inscribed on the ornament repy in my head like a soft, broken gramophone.

  Keep it with you, my rose, and you will be safe.

  I knew this wasn't a simple gift. I mean, first of all, this pced it in my house without my knowledge. This was a sign. A sign that they had complete control in our situation. Now, the words that had been written on it? A warning of sorts. A way of telling me that my life was in the palm of their hand. I remember yesterday wondering if I was just imagining the feeling of being watched. But now I know that it was completely real. Who do I tell? My parents have resolutely decided not believe me. Who can I trust? Will this person find out? Am I going to be okay?

  I am not safe. I'm never going to be safe.

  My thoughts freeze as my father walks into my room.

  "Hurry up, dear. Your mother looks like she's going to burst a blood vessel."

  I just nod, my gaze falling on the rose hair clip that I was still holding in my hand. My father follows my gaze so that he also falls upon the hair clip. He gnces at me with a small smile.

  "What's this?" he moves to me and takes the hair clip from my hands, "To my most beautiful flower. Hm. Is there someone I should know about, dear?"

  His eyes had a pyful glint in them as he carefully examined the details on the clip. I almost physically gagged. My father thought I had gotten this from a lover. He couldn't be farther from wrong. If he had known that someone was in my house. Someone had pced this here deliberately; maybe he wouldn't be smiling. But I know he wouldn't listen to me. My mother had drilled it into him that I just had an overactive imagination.

  My father takes my silence as shyness. He simply ughed and said:

  "You kids and your young romances. You better tell me if this boy is nice to you, okay?"

  I couldn't say anything, so I just swallowed and nodded. He smiled, his eyes holding a question that his mouth was just barely holding back.

  "Is this from that friend of yours? What's his name? Ansel? Yes, that one! You two have always seemed so close."

  A blush creeps on my face, and I quickly deny everything.

  "No dad! He's a friend, okay! I don't think of him like that and vice versa." I snatch the hair clip from his hands.

  My dad just chuckled. I felt like I wanted to crawl up into a ball and just die. He refuses to accept the fact that Ansel and I are simply good friends. Only friends. We've both known each other since we were little kids. We met during our first day of school, and we've been inseparable ever since. I trusted him more than anyone else in my life, but that was it. I definitely did not have any resounding emotions for him. My dad seemed to get from my expression that I didn't want to talk about it anymore, so he left it.

  "Alright, alright. I'll stop. Why don't you come downstairs before your mother explodes?" he says, taking my hand. "I swear she was turning purple by how hard she was clenching her teeth."

  My mother was in the kitchen and was making breakfast. As much as we bicker, I will always say that my mother's cooking is one of the most amazing things I have ever eaten. I smile. I don't think I've done that for a while. This whole scene is just so domestic. My mother is in the kitchen, making breakfast, and my father is sitting down at the dining table and pulling out a book. It almost made me forget for a moment. Almost. I clench my fists, surprised to feel cold metal digging into my skin. I was still carrying the hair clip. Why couldn't I let it go? I think the subconscious fear of harm wasn't allowing me to leave the hair clip lying around for fear of losing it.

  "Oh! Look who made it downstairs," my mom's sharp voice rang clear through the kitchen, "took you long enough! Just watch. The entire market is going to be swarmed with people."

  I just nod and sigh as her grumblings go on. I had learned a long time ago to tune her out, so I just sat down at the kitchen table, her words going in through one ear and out the other. My father gave me a knowing look, but he didn't say anything to stop my mom from scolding me. He had long since learned that this was something he should never mess with. If he wanted to survive the day, then he would keep quiet and let my mother chew me out.

  "Honestly, how hard is it to get up a bit earlier?" she said, smming a cabinet door for emphasis. "You're always the st one ready. And we have so much to do today. Do you even know how busy the market is going to be?"

  I gnced over at my dad, who was still calmly reading the book. He gave me a small, sympathetic smile, one that said, "hang in there." We both knew the routine. My dad would let my mom vent, and I would sit quietly until she had gotten it all out of her system. He believed it was better to let the storm pass rather than trying to stop it. We both give each other a look while my mother brings out breakfast. My favorite oats with raisins and cashews. There was even a little portion of bread and cheese on the side. Maybe she didn't hate me that much this morning. I finished breakfast as quickly as I could. My mother was grumbling all sorts of things in the background, sort of as motivation for me to get my ass up and leave. I finished the st of the oats and stood up quickly when something fell from my p. The hair clip. I briskly pick it up. Thankfully, both my parents were preoccupied with something, so they didn't notice what just happened.

  I need to keep this in a safer pce. Somewhere, my parents won't find it, and where I won't lose it.

  "Mom? I'll leave in just a second. I need to get something from upstairs. I forgot something."

  My mother offered me an angry gre, but she nodded, and I took that as my cue to run up the stairs and into my room. The room is modest, with walls made of rough-hewn wooden pnks, partially covered by woven tapestries that add a spsh of color and warmth. A small, narrow window allows a sliver of daylight to filter in, casting a soft, golden glow over the space. The window is adorned with simple curtains, made of homespun fabric. In one corner of the room is a wooden bed, its frame sturdy but unadorned. The mattress is stuffed with straw and covered with a patchwork quilt. A simple, handwoven bnket is neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Next to the bed stands a small, wooden dresser, its surface worn smooth from years of use. On top of the dresser, a small, polished bronze mirror and a comb made from bone rest. I looked past all this, and my eyes fell on the small woven rug by the edge of my bed. Underneath the little rug was a loose pnk that my parents or anyone else, for that matter, were aware of. I've often hidden little trinkets that I've found that I knew my mom would make me throw away in there. To this day, my mother has never found anything I'd hidden in there.

  That should be my safest option. I will keep it there for the time being... until I figure out what to do with it.

  I approach the little rug and lift it to reveal the broken pnk. I carefully wedged it out of its crevice, and it revealed a tiny nook that contained all sorts of little trinkets. I carefully pced the hair clip between two old ragdolls. I assumed it would be safe there, and the dolls would cushion it so it doesn't break easily. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs,s and my hands flew to put the pnk back into its position and my rug back into pce. My mother walked in just at the moment when I sat down on my bed. She looks at me for a moment, likely suspicious about what I had been doing the moment before she stepped into the room. But she made no comment and just nodded for me to get a move on. I nod back at her and grab my cloak from its pce, hanging from my bedpost. After fitting it carefully around my neck, I made my way downstairs, where a basket was waiting for me.

  "Your mom said to take that basket today," my father said, without looking up at me. He had put his book away and was now bent over at the kitchen table. He was probably working on one of his new wooden carvings again. Once he got into that, there was almost nothing that could get him out of it. I didn't mind, I simply mumbled out an okay, grabbed the basket, and left the house.

  -----------------

  The cobblestone path to the marketpce twisted and turned through the heart of the medieval town, a lifeline connecting the daily lives of its inhabitants to the bustling hub of trade and commerce. The early morning light cast a golden hue over the stone buildings, their thatched roofs still damp with the morning dew, making the stones beneath your feet glisten like tiny jewels embedded in the ground.

  On either side of the path, small, timber-framed houses stood shoulder to shoulder, their wooden shutters flung open to welcome the day's first light. The sweet scent of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy aroma of the cobblestones, carried by the gentle breeze from the nearby bakery, inviting all who passed to start their day with a warm loaf. The bakery's brick chimney puffed out thin wisps of smoke, a sign that the ovens had been fired since dawn.

  Merchants began setting up their stalls along the narrow street, their colorful awnings fluttering gently in the morning air like banners heralding the day's commerce. Voices called out in friendly banter, the ctter of wooden carts being unloaded echoing against the stone walls. The path was lined with vendors, their tables overflowing with vibrant produce, exotic spices, and finely woven fabrics, creating a tapestry of colors that delighted the eye. The smell of fresh herbs and spices wafted through the air, hinting at the culinary possibilities they offered.

  Children darted between the stalls, their ughter a cheerful symphony that blended with the sounds of the marketpce. Chickens clucked and scratched at the dirt, and a stray dog trotted past, eyeing the butcher's stand with keen interest. The butcher, a burly man with a stained apron, sharpened his cleaver with a rhythmic scrape, ready to serve the day's customers. A horse-drawn cart rumbled by, the driver tipping his hat in greeting to familiar faces. The cart's wooden wheels creaked under the weight of barrels filled with ale, destined for the local taverns.

  As I neared the heart of the market, the path widened into a bustling square dominated by a rge stone fountain. The water sparkled in the sunlight, and townsfolk gathered around its base, exchanging news and gossip as they filled their buckets. The fountain was adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures, their stone faces weathered by time but still regal. The air was alive with the mingling scents of fresh herbs, roasting meat, and the tang of the sea breeze from the nearby coast.

  The market square itself was a hive of activity. Merchants hawking their wares with practiced enthusiasm, their voices rising above the din to attract customers. Stalls den with goods from near and far promised treasures and necessities alike. Here, a fabric seller dispyed bolts of rich, colorful cloth; there, a spice merchant's table was an aromatic paradise of exotic scents and fvors. A jeweler's stand glittered with finely crafted rings and neckces, while a potter demonstrated his craft, shaping cy into beautiful vases and bowls on his spinning wheel.