Insight of a Kenyan Girl

Fear. It clawed its way up Tilly’s throat like smoke in a burning room—acrid, suffocating, impossible to escape. It was all she could feel. All she could be. Not confusion, not anxiety—just fear. Heavy and consuming, thick as fog and twice as blinding.

She had thrown open the door with her breath snagging in her lungs, expecting to see someone—anything. A face. A figure. Some flesh-and-bone proof of her unease.

But there was nothing. Just the still hallway, lined with muted beige walls and the flickering overhead light that buzzed like a fly trapped in a jar. The bulb trembled slightly, casting trembling shadows on the walls that seemed to twitch with every movement of her eyes.

She stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding against her ribs, hands clenched at her sides.

Then she saw it.

A flash of red against the muted floorboards—so vivid it was almost obscene. A new envelope, resting just below the threshold, as though it had bloomed from the shadows themselves.

Bright red.

Almost blinding.

She stared at it for a moment. Not moving. Not breathing. Her mind scrambled to make sense of it. She had opened the door. She had looked right there. It hadn’t been there. She was sure of it.

How?

How did they get that close without her hearing? Without her feeling it?

A tremble started in her knees. Slowly, cautiously, she bent down and picked it up, every nerve in her body shrieking like a live wire. She snatched the envelope into her hands and slammed the door shut behind her—deadbolt, latch, chain. Everything. Her breath rushed out in a sharp exhale.

She sank to the floor, the wood cool against her back, the envelope burning in her hands like it was pulsing with life.

She turned it over. No name. No markings. Just that blood-red paper, too bright to feel like coincidence.

She opened it, hands shaking so hard the flap nearly tore.

Inside, a delicate silver chain unfurled like a whisper. At its center hung a ring—a simple silver band, the kind someone might wear every day without thinking. A subtle twist in its design made it feminine. Personal. Loved.

It wasn’t hers.

Tilly’s stomach churned.

The ring swung gently, catching the light. She couldn’t stop staring. Something about it gnawed at her, like she’d seen it before. Or dreamt about it. She couldn’t be sure anymore.

And then the note.

It slipped from the envelope like a final breath and landed on her lap. The paper was thick, textured, and expensive—intentionally chosen. Not something someone grabbed from a grocery store.

Her fingers unfolded it with slow dread.

“You are braver than I thought.”

That was it.

Just that.

Elegant handwriting. Perfect spacing. It felt almost loving, almost proud—like a teacher watching a student pass their first test.

Tilly’s blood ran cold.

She dropped the note as if it had burned her. The ring clinked softly to the floor beside her. The sound was too loud in the silence of her apartment.

She stayed there, frozen against the door, the scent of the roses still lingering faintly from the kitchen, mixing with lavender and terror.

Her eyes darted across the room. Everything looked normal. Familiar.

And yet, nothing felt normal anymore.

Her mind twisted in loops. Who could’ve sent this? Who had been close enough? Who knew where she lived? The list of suspects kept growing but so did the possibilities. A stranger. A former guest from Mystique. Someone she passed in a crowd. Or—

Someone she trusted.

Her breathing grew uneven. Shallow. Panic began to tighten its grip.

Maybe she was losing it.

Maybe this was all in her head, a slow descent into madness brought on by too much pressure, too little sleep. Her therapist had once mentioned something about “cumulative trauma.” Maybe this was it. The breaking point.

But no. That ring was real. The roses. The notes. The knock. All of it.

Her gaze flicked toward the window.

Curtains drawn.

But was someone out there? Watching? Waiting?

The air suddenly felt wrong. Like it didn’t belong to her anymore. Like it was borrowed. Or worse—invaded.

She couldn’t stay here. She needed to move. To do something. But her legs refused to listen. Her body was frozen with dread, her thoughts looping endlessly around a single truth:

Someone had been at her door.

Someone who had touched the same floorboards she now sat on.

Someone who had left her a gift.

A message.

And a warning.