When Hannah moved into her new apartment, she noticed something odd. Every few days, a small package or gift appeared neatly on her doormat. At first, it seemed harmless — a basket of muffins, a bouquet of flowers, a scented candle wrapped in ribbon.
She assumed it was a welcome gesture from a kind neighbor. She even smiled when she saw a note once that simply said, “Enjoy your day.” But she never caught anyone leaving them.
As the weeks passed, the gifts became more personal. A book by her favorite author. A scarf in her favorite color. Once, even a framed photo of the very café she worked at. Hannah felt a twinge of unease. How could a stranger know these details about her life?
One evening, she waited by the peephole after hearing quiet footsteps in the hallway. At midnight, a shadow appeared. A hand gently placed a small box in front of her door. Her heart pounded as she flung it open.
There stood her neighbor, Mr. Collins — the older man who lived across the hall. He looked startled, caught in the act.
“I… I just wanted to be kind,” he stammered. “You remind me of someone.”
Hannah demanded an explanation. He handed her the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a locket. She opened it — and froze.
Inside was a photograph of a young woman who looked almost exactly like Hannah.
Mr. Collins’s eyes filled with tears. “She was my daughter. She died ten years ago. You look just like her. I didn’t know how to say it, so I left gifts instead. It made me feel like… like she was still here.”
Hannah’s fear melted into a heavy ache. The man wasn’t a stalker. He was a grieving father, clinging to the memory of the child he had lost.
From that night on, the gifts stopped. But sometimes, when Hannah passed Mr. Collins in the hallway, he would smile faintly — as if seeing a ghost of the past in her face.
And she would nod gently, carrying the weight of a secret she could never quite forget.
