It's late afternoon. The golden light falls softly across the building floor. Her shoes click gently on the wooden floor. In the hallway, something catches her eye—a small package wrapped in brown paper and twine. She pauses, breath held, already knowing. She grabs it and gets inside her place. With slow hands, she unwraps it. Inside, a modest bouquet of violets, freshly picked, and a folded letter written in elegant script. She reads the words carefully. They speak of her laugh, her quiet strength, the way she looks at the world like it still holds poetry. The note is signed simply: "—S". Her eyes well up. She brings the flowers to her nose, inhales deeply, and for the first time all week, she smiles—truly smiles. She murmurs to herself, almost in disbelief, "Who are you... and how do you know exactly what I needed to hear?" She places the letter gently on the nightstand, arranges the violets in her favorite glass jar, and sits on the edge of the bed, still holding the ribbon between her fingers. That's when she hears it: the keys turning in the front door. Her body tenses slightly. She doesn't move. Her husband walks in carrying groceries, his phone pressed to his ear. He glances at her briefly. "You're home early," he says. She forces a soft smile and nods. She thinks he doesn't notice the flowers. He doesn't ask about the letter. And Violeta says nothing more. She watches him, the air around her still smells faintly of violets... and a truth she can't yet name.