The Letter

Hazel took a deep breathe and tried to gently return her view to the paper in her hand. It continued.

"My Dearest Butterfly,

If you're reading this, then I'm already gone. I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. I feel like it was better I killed myself, long before I met you're mother, I would never have to put you all through this.

You were never supposed to see this—never meant to carry the weight of what I've done. But now... now I need you to know. To survive, to run or if you can face them, you can try.

I took a loan. But not the kind you think. Not from banks. Not from people. From monsters cloaked in suits and false promises. I thought I could outsmart them—I was wrong. Horribly wrong. What I owe them is more than money. It's blood.

My blood.

Yours.

Don't look for Guru.

Don't even whisper the name again once you finish this. If he's real—and I pray he isn't—then he's listening. Watching. Breathing down the necks of the people we love. If you ever don't see me again... if my death is called an accident, a stroke, a heart failure—it wasn't. He came.

And he will come for you too. I didn't trade my soul or anything but it's a deal anyways and he's a person somewhere behind a mask.

I wanted to tell your mother. But with her heart—her illness—I couldn't risk it. I loved her too much to watch fear eat her alive. I still do. And I love you more than I ever had the words for.

Hazel, my past isn't just checkered. It's rotten. It's soaked in things no good man should have touched. I thought I had escaped them. But the truth is... the rot never stops. It just lies dormant until something—or someone—wakes it up.

That time has come.

You must protect yourself. Trust no one. Especially those who claim to know me. Don't dig too deep.

The closer you get to the truth, the more you become the next debt to be paid.

Forgive me. I hope you can, so that I can forgive myself.

I'm not leaving you strength. I'm not leaving you safety. I'm leaving you a target.

But I'm always with you. My butterfly. Watching. Guarding. Hoping the monsters forget your name like they forgot mine for a while.

And if they don't...

Burn the the papers.

Dad"

Hazel remained shocked as she gently put down the letter. Her mind raced in thoughts. She tried to read it again for clarity but it remained.

"Who was Guru?" She questioned herself in her mind.

Hazel wasn't in the mood for a lengthy tale-telling adventure. Still, she managed to rise above her emotional storm - momentarily. Shifting the conversation seemed like the wisest escape hatch, at least for now.

With an eager burst, she told Mildred, "About the cafe, the other day" she scratched her neck before she continued and before Mildred could respond, Hazel rushed into a second round of apologies. Her voice softened, her words clearing out on the phone " I hope you have forgiven me. I know I've asked before."

To sweeten the apology, she added, "If you'll still work with me, I'll double your pay this month. You deserve that - and more."

For a moment, Mildred's heart lifted. Her loyalty wasn't in question, but Hazel's sincerity made the burden of the past few days a little lighter.

"Hey, um... I can't come in today, Mil. Think you could maybe stand in for me?" Hazel asked with a hint of hesitation, her tone frayed at the edges.

"You don't even have to ask, boss," Mildred teased, chuckling.

Hazel laughed too - laughed. It felt strange and welcome, like rediscovering a forgotten limb. When she hung up, a quiet forgiveness settled in her chest - not just for Mildred, but for herself.

She trudged to the living room.

Mrs. Kaydence was still curled into the couch, her sobs now a quiet drizzle instead of the storm they'd been all night. Her sister Kate sat beside her, wiping mascara-streaked cheeks with one hand and offering tissues with the other.

Kate was everything Kaydence wasn't: more matronly than slim, with a commanding bust she didn't shy from flaunting. She wore firetruck-red lipstick and had a booming presence softened only by her deep concern.

"Hazel, darling," she said gently. "Why don't you fix your mother something warm? She's been crying all night. She must be starved."

Hazel nodded. She walked into the kitchen - their rustic kitchen - where everything still whispered of her father. The egg crate. The old spice rack. The crooked blind she'd always meant to fix.

She adjusted the blinds and inhaled deeply. The room was gloomy, heavy, as though mourning with them. Her gaze flicked upward toward the parchment ceiling, and that's when the ache hit again. The last time she'd seen her father, he had been standing right here, asking if she wanted syrup or honey.

The tears came knocking, but she blinked them back. Not now.

She cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them absently. Her hands moved, but her heart remained frozen in grief. She fried fluffy pancakes with quiet precision, flipping them expertly. When she finished, she drizzled honey and carried the breakfast tray to the living room.

Mrs. Kaydence didn't even glance at it.

Kate coaxed her to eat. Hazel didn't wait to see the outcome - she already knew breakfast would go untouched.

Without a word, she turned back toward her room.

Then, her phone rang. A familiar Spanish ringtone broke the hush - "Sofia" by Álvaro Soler. Hazel blinked, startled, and picked it up.

It was Philip.

The boy who once teased her on the monkey bars was now the man she imagined growing old with. They'd known each other since she was ten - two wandering souls who'd grown up finding pieces of themselves in each other. He was gentle, devoted, and vulnerable. Everything she ever needed.

And now, he was calling.

"Hey," came his deep, calm voice - smooth, magnetic, comforting.

Hazel's lips curled upward. It was the first genuine smile she'd managed in days.

"Hi, love," she murmured. The words slipped out of habit, but they rooted deeper this time, grounding her.

"I heard what happened," he said, his tone low but firm. "I feel like we should talk. I just... I don't want to believe anything until I've heard from you directly."

"Yeah," she whispered. "We can talk."

"Park in thirty?" he asked.

Hazel's heart leapt. "Yeah, that's... that's perfect."

She got up and hurried to dress. Her fingers drew her hair into soft waves, which she gathered into a neat ponytail. Standing before her hexagonal mirror, she dusted her cheeks with a faint blush, willing herself to look a little less hollow. She remembered her father, the horrible days she was having and for a moment she hated to care for herself until things got better.

Downstairs, just as she reached the door, Mrs. Amber Courtney stepped in - a family friend who always smelled like vanilla and jasmine.

"Kate!" she cried.

"It's so good to see you again," Kate replied, embracing her.

Hazel paused at the door.

"Where to, sweetheart?" Kate asked with a raised brow.

"Oh, um... I'm going to see Philip. Just to clear my head a bit."

Kate nodded. "Go ease some tension, sweetie. But be back in time for dinner, alright?"

Hazel gave a faint smile. "Dinner. Got it."

Behind her, Kaydence remained motionless, her grief anchored like lead.

Hazel stepped outside. The air was crisp and cool, the breeze kissing her face. She inhaled it deeply, allowing the silence between each footstep to ground her. She needed this - the walk, the breeze, the space to just be.

The park wasn't far. She spotted Philip's sleek sports car parked just ahead. His windows were tinted, the glass reflecting sky and treetops.

As she approached, he stepped out and opened the door for her. She once told him he didn't need to do that - that it wasn't the 1950s - but Philip insisted. For him, it wasn't about tradition. It was reverence.

"Sweet," he said warmly, arms outstretched.

Hazel faltered for a second, unsure of what she was feeling. Relief? Grief? A tangled knot of both?

But she stepped into his arms anyway.

He wrapped around her waist, pulling her close as she melted into his steady heartbeat. Her arms curved around his back, hugging her tiny pink bag between them. He kissed her gently on the cheek.

"You look... breathtaking," he murmured, lost in her.

Hazel didn't speak. She didn't need to. She didn't even feel wonderful. She felt like a worm soaked in a poodle. Soggy, suffocating, struggling. Yet Philip seemed like the biggest relief of the moment.

They got into the car.

Just as Philip started the engine, her phone buzzed again. Unknown number.

Hazel glanced at it and hesitated.