The television's glow was the only light in Seraphine's house.
It painted everything in shades of pale blue — the walls, the glass on the coffee table, the single sunflower leaning in a chipped vase by the window. The flower was beginning to wilt, its yellow petals curling inward like tired fingers. She watched it for a long time before turning her gaze back to the screen.
"…authorities have confirmed the identity of the suspect as Seth Karlsson," the reporter was saying, voice smooth, almost sympathetic. "Police believe the man may be connected to at least two other deaths, possibly in a neighboring town. Details remain limited, but investigators note similarities between the scenes…"
The anchor's tone shifted, dropping to that quiet cadence reserved for tragedy. "…each victim was found with a sunflower nearby — authorities speculate it may be a calling card."
Seraphine's lips parted slightly. A sunflower. She set her tea down, very slowly. Interesting.
The image on the screen flickered — a photo of the crime scene, cropped and sanitized for broadcast, but she saw enough: the outline of a bathtub, a dark smear, a gloved hand holding up evidence bags. She muted the TV. Silence filled the room, thick and heavy. For a moment, she just sat there, heartbeat echoing faintly in her ears.
It wasn't shock she felt. It was recognition — cold and electric.
A sunflower. Her sunflower.
She had used them for years, always quietly, always carefully. A private ritual, not a boast. Her victims never knew they were chosen for a reason. To her, the flower wasn't about beauty — it was about what it hid. How something could look radiant and alive while feeding on rot beneath the soil. It was good for the soil anyways. She tilted her head slightly, thinking.
Seth Karlsson.
The name itself had weight. Sharp at the start, soft at the end. A name that sounded too real to be invented, too ordinary to belong to a ghost. She replayed the news clip again, eyes scanning every frame. No clear image of him, only blurred footage of a man walking through a parking lot — tall, shoulders hunched, head down. A glimpse of his profile. It was enough. Something about the stillness in his movement — the deliberation — resonated with her.
She whispered the name aloud, tasting it. "Seth Karlsson."
The sound rolled off her tongue like an incantation.
By the next morning, she'd read every article, every scrap of gossip the web could offer. He was careful — no digital footprint, no clear motive. A man who appeared and disappeared like fog. And yet, the sunflower. That tethered him to her, whether he knew it or not.
Maybe he'd seen her work. Maybe it was a coincidence. Whatever it was, it felt personal.
By the time he appeared in Clare View Point, she was already waiting.
Now, weeks later, she found herself in the town library, pretending to browse through the nonfiction aisle, her fingers trailing idly across the spines.
Outside, rain pressed softly against the tall windows. The world was muted — all grey light and quiet footsteps. She hadn't meant to run into him again. Not here. Not like this. But when she looked up from the shelf and saw him standing by the counter — tall, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, a posture that screamed practiced ease — something in her chest shifted.
He was flipping through a book he clearly wasn't reading. The librarian smiled at him — he smiled back, polite, forgettable. She watched him for a moment longer, unseen, before stepping out from behind the aisle.
"Looking for something specific?" she asked, voice light, teasing.
He turned, startled — then that faint smile again, slow and deliberate.
"Well," he said, closing the book, "that depends. Are we talking about the shelves or something else entirely?"
Her lips curved. "I suppose that depends on what you've lost."
He chuckled softly — low, disarming. "I think I'm still figuring that out."
There it was — the same cadence she remembered from the diner. Playful, but careful. Like he was speaking in riddles he didn't want anyone else to solve.
She stepped closer. "So, are you a mystery or a history kind of man?"
He glanced at the book in his hand — True Crime: The Psychology of Obsession. The irony wasn't lost on either of them.
"Bit of both," he said. "I like stories about people who do strange things for understandable reasons."
"That's subjective.," she echoed.
"Maybe," he said. "But I think everything makes sense to someone. You just have to look at it long enough."
For a heartbeat, their eyes met — and held.
There was no recognition in his face, but she wondered if he felt it too — that unspoken flicker of something shared. The same strange gravity that had drawn them together at the diner, like moths orbiting the same quiet flame.
She tilted her head toward the window. "You know, there's something poetic about hiding from the rain in a library."
"Or ironic," he replied. "Two strangers surrounded by other people's stories, pretending not to have one of their own."
"You assume I'm pretending."
"Aren't we all?"
The silence that followed was comfortable — the kind that stretched, not suffocated.
Seraphine smiled faintly and moved to the reading table near the window. "Join me, then. You can tell me about these 'understandable' people you like so much."
He hesitated — just for a second — then followed, sitting across from her. The rain outside thickened, drumming softly against the glass.
She opened a random book from the stack between them, flipping idly through the pages. Neither was really reading.
"What about you?" he asked finally. "What kind of stories do you like?"
"The kind where everyone thinks they understand the ending," she said. "But they're wrong."
"That sounds like tragedy."
"Or truth."
He smiled, but there was something tight about it. "You sound like someone who's seen both."
She looked up at him — really looked — and for a moment, the world seemed to still again. The faint hum of lights above, the scent of rain on stone, the soft rasp of his breathing.
He didn't know that she'd watched him for days before they'd met. That she'd memorized the way he walked, the subtle twitch in his jaw when he thought too long. That she'd read about his crimes and thought, Finally. Someone who understood.But she could play this game as long as he could.
"Maybe I have," she said softly. "Maybe you have too."
His gaze lingered — curious, searching. Then he looked away, exhaling a laugh. "You talk like a poet."
"I read too much."
"Is that an excuse?"
"It's a defense mechanism."
That made him smile again — genuinely this time.
It was disarming, that smile. It didn't belong to a killer. It belonged to someone who might stop to help you cross the street, someone who might buy you coffee just because it was raining. But Seraphine had long ago learned that darkness rarely looked the way people expected.
The conversation drifted — from books to weather, from idle jokes to shared observations about the town. Neither mentioned the diner. Neither acknowledged that this was more than coincidence. At one point, he reached for a pen on the table, absentmindedly twirling it between his fingers.
She noticed the faint scar along his knuckle — small, pale, the kind only certain kinds of violence left behind. She wondered if he noticed the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the faint tremor in her hand when she turned a page. The tells were there, if you knew where to look. And he did. She was certain of it.
When they finally left, the rain had stopped. The streets gleamed under the dim orange glow of the streetlights.
They walked together toward the parking lot, the air cool and clean.
He broke the silence first. "You know, for a quiet town, Clare View Point has interesting people."
"People always are," she said. "You just have to stop pretending they're not."
He gave her a sideways glance, amused. "You're full of quotable lines."
"I'll try to be less philosophical next time."
"Next time," he repeated, as though testing the word. "So there'll be one?"
She smiled, slow and deliberate. "If you want there to be."
He nodded once, as though that settled it.
They stood by their cars — his dark sedan, her small white hatchback — the kind of vehicles that said normal to anyone who wasn't looking closely.
"I'll see you around, then," he said, opening his door.
"I'm sure you will," she replied.
As his car pulled away, she lingered under the streetlight. The reflection of his taillights glowed red across the wet pavement, fading into the distance.
Seth Karlsson.
She whispered the name again, but this time it sounded almost fond. It was almost as if their conversation never stopped. Not even a ''Hi, how are you? Have you washed the bleached off your hands yet?''
He didn't realize that from the very beginning, she'd already known who he was — not because of the diner, not because of chance, but because of that sunflower left behind in blood and bleach. He had spoken to her in a language she already understood. And she had answered — one petal at a time.