Interlude
The Watcher
The house is full tonight. Too many people. Voices spill out into the night.
From the trees beyond the property line, the lights burn warm against the winter dark. Shadows move across the curtains, crossing, pausing, gathering.
Cars line the street. Different house. Same focus.
There are more men than usual. The tall one is there again, always where she is—always watching.
A mistake. People like him don’t stay. They pretend to.
Inside, she laughs, head tipped back, shoulders loose, like nothing is wrong. Like the quiet means it’s over.
It isn’t. The quiet means patience.
From here, it’s easy to see the door. The windows. The way people move in and out of rooms without thinking about who might be counting.
Easy to see who stays close to her. Easy to see who doesn’t.
The tall one shifts when someone passes between them. Adjusts. Stays. For now.
The door opens. Light spills out, cutting across the yard before snapping shut again. Voices follow it, then disappear.
The watcher steps back, just enough to stay outside the reach of it.
He won’t stay. They never do. And when he forgets…. When he leaves space where he shouldn’t…. The quiet will be there again.
Waiting.