Dawn’s digging through the mess in the boot of her car for jumper cables when she finds it - an odd sort of tool that reminds her of a chisel. It has a long, polished wooden handle, and the metal end is wide enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She touches a finger to the metal part gingerly and draws back suddenly when the edge scrapes against her skin uncomfortably. Dawn vaguely remembers seeing something like it on television before, a random late-night show about ice sculptors.
The thing is, she has absolutely no idea how one made its way into her car. Dawn’s never met an ice sculptor, and she’s not exactly interested in becoming one herself. She looks down at the chisel and, after a moment’s hesitation, puts it back in the car. She’ll have to deal with it another time - she’s already late for work.
A bouquet of lilacs, lilies, and forget-me-nots appears on her desk sometime during her lunch break a few days after she finds the chisel. They’re lovely and fragrant and don’t resemble the gaudy arrangements Anders tends to get her (and his various conquests, and also disgruntled clients) when he’s trying to sweet-talk her into not quitting. Dawn is almost certain the bouquet isn’t from him, but she has to know for sure.
“Is this proof you’ve started listening to me when I talk?”
Anders glances up from the newspaper he’s skimming. “I always listen when you talk, Dawn,” he says.
Dawn rolls her eyes and goes back to her desk. She manages to keep the flowers alive for several days longer than usual, and they keep her company when Anders once again disappears for no discernable reason.
Dawn finds the shirt in the back of her closet while searching for a coat to match with her new dress. It’s clearly a man’s shirt, long-sleeved and broad and slate grey, and she catches a faint whiff of cologne when she slides it off the hanger to inspect it. She can’t imagine where it came from - dating while working for Anders is impossible, and she doesn’t think she’s had any recent one-night stands. The shirt definitely doesn’t look like it belongs to Anders either, not that he ever spends time at her flat if he can avoid it.
The garment is far too large and not at all his style anyway, but still - there’s something familiar about it all the same. She stares at it, feels vaguely like she’s missing something very important. Nothing comes to mind, however, so she shrugs and tosses it aside to dispose of later.