At first, Sophie’s gifts were a sweet surprise — flowers, cookies, little tokens of kindness. But when I unwrapped the last package, a chill ran through me. Hidden beneath the chocolates was a note with a message that made me call the police.

I found them early one morning, wrapped in attractively folded brown paper, sitting outside my apartment door. Yellow daisies, their petals cheerful against the dull hallway carpet.

A small note was tucked between the stems.

“Just a little something to brighten your day. Sophie.”

Sophie, my next-door neighbor in apartment 4B, was always friendly enough, though we weren’t particularly close.

She’d wave from her car if we passed in the parking lot or offer a quick hello when we met in the hall.

Despite our limited interactions, the flowers made me smile.

I arranged them in an old glass vase and placed them on my kitchen counter, where sunlight caught their yellow petals throughout the day. The packaging was too pretty to throw out, so I tucked it away in a kitchen drawer.

Three days later, I stumbled over another package while fumbling for my keys after work. This time, they were homemade chocolate chip cookies with a hint of cinnamon in the cutest hand-painted box.

The note read: “Just because. –Sophie.”

I knocked on her door that evening, but there was no answer. I could hear her television playing inside, so I called out, “Sophie? Thanks for the cookies!”

A muffled voice responded, “You’re welcome! Glad you liked them!”

But something about her voice sounded tight and strained.

I asked, “Hey Sophie, is everything okay in there?”

A pause, then, “All good! Just busy with work stuff. Talk later!”

I shrugged and returned to my apartment, thinking nothing of it. People get busy, and Sophie had always seemed like the type who might need space sometimes.

A week passed, and a vanilla and lavender scented candle appeared on my doorstep next, its glass container wrapped carefully in tissue paper inside a beautiful gift bag.

Each gift came with a note signed the same way: “Just because. Sophie.” Her kindness became a quiet, comforting presence in my life, something I looked forward to.

I tried to reciprocate once, leaving a potted plant by her door with a note, but when I checked later, it remained untouched.

The next day, it was gone, with a note slipped under my door: “Thanks for the thought! No plants for me right now, though. Allergies. S”

One evening, I came home to find an elegant box of chocolates outside my door. Dark chocolate, which was my favorite, though I couldn’t remember ever mentioning that to Sophie.

“Just another little something. Sophie.”

Smiling, I popped one into my mouth as I stepped inside, savoring the combination of bitterness and sweetness as I kicked off my shoes and tossed my keys onto the counter.

I worked my way through several pieces while watching the evening news.

When I reached the bottom of the box, my fingers brushed against something unexpected. There was a folded note hidden beneath the last layer of chocolates!

Unlike the other notes, this one wasn’t on Sophie’s usual floral stationery. It was written on plain printer paper, folded into a tight square.

“Check the notes hidden in every package I gave you.”

My stomach twisted as I read the words. The chocolate in my mouth suddenly tasted like ash.

I rushed to my kitchen.

The brown paper from the daisies, the box from the cookies, and the gift bag from the candle were all there, stashed in the junk drawer alongside takeout menus, spare batteries, and Christmas gift wrapping I planned to reuse.

Hands shaking, I laid them side by side on the table, eyes scanning for the hidden notes.

At first, everything looked normal, then I spotted something beneath the first layer of the brown paper the daisies came in. I peeled that layer back and found these words: If I knock three times on the wall.

I fell upon the cookie box next. There was nothing hidden under the wax paper at the bottom of the box or the pretty tissue paper under that.

Then I noticed an arrow drawn onto the card pointing to one corner.

I carefully unfolded the box and there was the next message: call the police.

A chill ran down my spine. My hands shook as I lifted the candle gift bag, the last of the packaging from Sophie’s gifts.

I carefully removed the tissue paper from the gift bag. While I was searching for the final message, a small piece of folded paper fell onto my kitchen counter.

My heart stopped when I read the message on it.

Sophie had written, “Someone found me,” on the last note.

“If I knock three times on the wall, call the police. Someone found me.” I muttered. “Oh, God, Sophie, what’s going on?”

My heart hammered against my ribs as little details about Sophie I’d never paid much mind to before suddenly took on a deeper meaning.

Sophie always double-checked her locks. Once, I’d heard her having a hushed, trembling argument on her phone in the stairwell.

I’d thought it was just relationship drama. Nothing serious, but now… now I was starting to think Sophie was hiding from someone, but why?

I quickly searched Sophie’s name online — nothing. No social media, no past addresses. It was as though she didn’t exist.

Then I heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three slow, deliberate knocks from the other side of the thin wall.

My blood ran cold. The knocks weren’t on her door — they were on the wall between our apartments. A signal only I would notice.

I pressed my ear against the wall that separated our apartments. Silence. Then a thud, like something heavy being set down. Muffled voices — a man’s and Sophie’s. Her tone was strained, falsely bright, and loud enough to carry.

“How did you say you found me again?”

The man’s reply was too quiet to make out.

“Right, right,” Sophie continued. “Small world.”

Without hesitation, I grabbed my phone and dialed 911. I told the operator about Sophie’s messages and the partial conversation I’d overheard.

Within minutes, flashing police lights flooded the street below my window, and heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. I cracked open my door to see four officers approaching Sophie’s apartment.

One officer knocked sharply. “Police, open up.”

A man’s voice called out, “Everything’s fine in here. Just visiting a friend.”

“Sir, we need you to open the door now,” the officer repeated.

A loud crash echoed into the hallway from Sophie’s apartment, followed by a strangled cry. The police banged on the door again, but this time, there was no reply.

I watched through the crack in my door as the police broke down Sophie’s door.

Sophie shouted, and then a man cried out. Moments later, Sophie dashed into the hallway and pressed herself against the wall, her face pale with terror as she stared into her apartment.

Moments later, the police reappeared. A man I’d never seen before stood between the officers, his wrists secured in handcuffs.

“You’ll never escape me!” he yelled, lunging away from the officers and toward Sophie. “I’ll always find you, always!”

The police led him away, and Sophie sank down to the floor. One of the other officers squatted down beside her as Sophie burst into tears.

I didn’t think twice. I dashed out into the hall and rushed to Sophie’s side.

“Sophie, are you okay? Did he hurt you?” I asked as I placed my hands on her shoulders.

Sophie looked up at me, tears running down her face, and shook her head. “I’m fine, thanks to you. You saved my life! If it weren’t for you, I-I…”

She broke down then and I pulled her into a tight hug.

Over the next few hours, I found out the truth.

Sophie was in the witness protection program. She’d testified against her ex-boyfriend — a violent criminal — years ago, putting him behind bars for a series of armed robberies, but he was released early and came after Sophie for revenge.

Sophie (or whatever her real name was) had been hiding in plain sight, knowing he was hunting her, unable to call for help directly. So she’d created her own lifeline, through simple gifts and hidden words.

The police took him away, and Sophie left without a trace, vanishing from my life just as suddenly as she had appeared.

I wanted to ask more — who she really was, where she was going — but I understood. The less I knew, the safer she would be.

The apartment next door was emptied overnight, as if she’d never existed.

Weeks later, a small package arrived at my door. No return address. Inside was a delicate, handmade bracelet of twisted copper wire with small blue beads. The kind Sophie used to wear.

There was no note this time, no hidden message. None was needed.

I slipped the bracelet onto my wrist, knowing she was alive, safe, and even from the shadows, she hadn’t forgotten me.