Interlude
The Watcher
The house is different tonight. Light spills where it used to go dark. Movement behind windows that once stayed still after sunset.
From the edge of the tree line, the view is partial. Branches break up the angles. Distance softens the details. Not enough.
Two shapes move through the kitchen. Not one. The taller one crosses first. The smaller one follows. Familiar. The way she pauses. The way she turns her head when she’s listening. The way she lingers instead of walking away.
Too close. The distance between them disappears for a moment. Then stays gone.
A knot tightens. The cameras blink beneath the eaves. The yard remains quiet. The house doesn’t. Not anymore.
The taller shape steps closer. The smaller one doesn’t move away. Once, she would have. Once, there had been space. Now there isn’t.
The space between them disappears. Unacceptable. The hallway light catches them. Close. Closer than before. The difference is impossible to miss. They turn. Move down the hallway. Disappear from view.
A door closes somewhere inside the house. The kitchen light remains on. Too easy. Too comfortable. The knot twists tighter.
A branch scrapes against the siding. Wind moves through the trees. Nothing else. A slow step back into deeper shadow. Then another.
The house stays in view. The windows. The lights. The glow spilling into the yard.
And the watching doesn’t stop.