"The cookies were sweet, they're my favourite."
He slid the note beneath Sam's door when she was out. She found it amazing how he could always drop by without her catching him. Sure, she was dying to know who her neighbour was. But the mystery was far more enthralling. Hell, it was the most exciting thing that has happened for days.
Days, because she had not replied at all. She wasn't certain of the reason; maybe it was because she didn't know what else to say or that she wanted the person to come by. It would be nice to have human interaction — but not just to say 'hi' and 'hello' but to have actual conversations with.
She finally had internet, but the signal wasn't all that good. She had made herself a coffee, poured herself a cup, and drank quite a few times before it led her to Google. But Sam swore she would not let the internet drive her crazy. After all, she wanted to live away from the modern bustling world.
An old soul was she.
Maybe that's why all her exes never really lasted long. They were either too boring or immature for her — even if they were the same age. She wanted something challenging...something different.
But even though she has found something quite different, she still wasn't sure of what to do or how to handle it. Perhaps because she just didn't know how or Sam was worried she'd scare this one off too.
But it turned out to be the opposite.
She stayed home for days. She had enough food in the fridge and didn't really need to make a run to the store. She had her books which she voraciously read at the front porch. Sam was waiting for someone to pass by but he never really came.
But she never really stopped hoping.
Just check on her, at least? Was he not interested? Or was he also an introvert?
She wished she could ask. But it seemed too late to send a letter.
"Fuck it," Sam throw herself on the bed and grabbed the notebook at the side. After writing three lines on the paper, she ripped it and went her own way.
Brahms didn't expect Sam to come by with a new letter. He observed her behind the tall bushes, watching her walk up the Heelshire's front porch. But he couldn't walk to the house right away and made sure Sam went straight home.
He was on his way to her house to wait and see if she was to sit by the front door to read like she usually did. She was a nice view — different from his usual sight. Instead of staring at an old TV monitor, he was staring at a real-life person. Uneventful for some, but absolutely brilliant for Brahms.
When Sam went back into the house, Brahms hurried home, excited to read what she had written on a new piece of paper.
"I want to get to know you more. Are you a guy or a girl? What's your name?"
He was surprised at her straightforwardness. Different was scary to a man like Brahms. But it was all the more...enticing. Slowly, he held the paper under his porcelain mask to smell the scent of her pen. The faint smell of ink was enough to fuel his imagination.
Brahms returned a letter in a quiet evening. By then, he thought, she would know he was coming. It had to be done a safer way. If she saw him, even in a long black coat, she would expect him to speak and look like a normal human being.
Like one of those men in the movies.
Brahms might have a peculiar taste for romance and intimacy, but that does not discount the fact that he is aware of how the real world goes. And he knew she would not stop and stare and fall in love like the women in the movies. Because he did not look like the men in the movies at all.
"A man. Brahms."
"Oh," Sam thought, "Someone does live there."
It was a relief. But although this should have pacified her, Sam was even more curious to know about Malcolm.
She had given up dating for two years, refusing to go on dates and ignoring messages. But now, there was a "man" next door sending her letters.
Although she's a hopeless romantic, Sam had always been careful around men, trying to find the right one. And meeting something with an air of distinctness was just her cup of tea.
"Brahms," she whispered to herself. And a smile naturally formed on her lips.
By the window, Brahms stood, listening in. He had to make sure that she would not react badly when she read his name. It was a risk he took to give her real name. But lying wasn't his thing.
Brahms might be anything but a liar, he convinced himself.
If she ran, he could catch up to her, anyway.
