She didn’t move. Not at first. This was the kind of knock that echoed like it didn’t belong to a friend—or a stranger with good intentions. It clung to the atmosphere long after it stopped, like it knew it had unsettled her. Like it wanted to be heard again, inside her head, louder than her thoughts. Three knocks. No doorbell. No follow-up. Just... awkward waiting.
She edged toward the door on instinct. Through the peephole, nothing. Just the porch she hadn’t stepped out on in six months and the crooked doormat that used to say “Welcome” before the letters faded.
She opened the door—just a crack—something was there. A box. Small, white, with a string tied tight like an old-school bakery ribbon. No note this time. No signature. But the smell hit her instantly: cinnamon, nutmeg, and a hint of orange zest. She hadn’t smelled that combination since—
Her throat closed. Since her. Since before the night everything had gone still.
***
She brought the box inside like it was radioactive, setting it gently beside the paper bag. Her fingers hovered over the string, hesitant, or perhaps scared. That pulling it might unravel more than just a knot.
Her mother used to tie cake boxes with the same kind of string. Not because she had to—her packaging was clean and modern—but because she said it made people feel like they were taking something home from childhood. Nostalgia, she used to call it. That word hurt now.
After a few seconds, she untied the string anyway. She was never good with refraining curiosity.
Inside were two slices of spice cake. Not store-bought. Not from any bakery she knew. The frosting was uneven, like someone had used the back of a spoon, and the cake was a little lopsided. But the smell—it was familiar.
She reached out before she could stop herself. Warm. Fresh. Someone must had intentionally baked it that morning. Someone must had knew the cake would intrigued her.
She looked around her silent kitchen, heart thudding.
No explanation. Just the cake.
And a little question in her mind that refused to leave: Who still remembered her mother’s recipe?
***
She didn’t eat the cake. Not yet. Instead, she sat at the kitchen table with her hands in her lap, watching the slices like they might tell her a secret.
She hadn’t let herself think about her mom in weeks—months, maybe—but now every corner of the room seemed to push her boundaries.
The clock ticked past 2:37. She closed her eyes, not wanting to feel the horror lurking from the back of her mind.
And then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
Just a single line.
“You still remember how to make it, right?”
*to be continued*
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