Interlude
The Watcher
The motion light clicks on. White light spills across the backyard, cutting through the darkness. New. That wasn't there last night.
A step back into the shadows comes. The space between the maple tree and the fence is familiar. Comfortable.
The yard has changed. The light. The door. The back entrance sits tighter in the frame now. Someone fixed it.
The kitchen light glows through the window. A large shape moves across the room. Not her. The man. He's been here all evening. Staying.
Attention settles on the house. The curtains stay closed now. They didn’t before. Someone told her to be careful.
A branch sways overhead. The motion light flashes on again. Another step backward. Waiting. The light shuts off.
Darkness returns. Better. Closer.
The siding smells faintly of fresh wood. The driveway catches the moonlight at the same angle. Some things haven’t changed.
Inside, movement catches the eye. The woman. She crosses the kitchen, auburn hair pulled over one shoulder before disappearing down the hallway.
A familiar sight. Watched countless times. The house settles again. Quiet. A few minutes later, the living room light dims. The man's silhouette lowers onto the couch.
Still there. Still staying. The routine has changed. The woman used to be alone once the man left. Alone was easier.
A longer wait follows. No rush. People are careful after something scares them. Careful means they remember.
For a while. Then life gets busy. Doors get unlocked. Lights get forgotten. Routines return. They always do. That's when mistakes happen.
Inside, the house goes dark. Outside, the watching continues. The waiting has a purpose now.