After my father passed away, I rented a beach house in a quiet seaside town where he used to retreat from the chaos of the city. I intended it to be a healing journey—a way to feel closer to the man who raised me. The house was exactly as he had described: warm, serene, and surrounded by blooming flowers.

The new owner, Nikolas, greeted me with kindness, offering local advice and a bouquet of blue irises—my favorite flower, though I’d never mentioned it

. At first, I dismissed it as a strange coincidence. But when he replaced the pillows to avoid triggering my pollen allergy and filled the fridge with my favorite fruits, a sense of unease began to settle in. He knew too much.

The longer I stayed, the more disturbing things became. Nikolas always seemed one step ahead, as if he knew exactly what I needed before I did. He insisted he didn’t know my father—only that his late mother had once owned the house.

But everything changed the night I discovered an unmarked photo of my father with an unknown woman, sitting on the kitchen table—a table I was certain had been clear the night before.

That was the last straw.

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