The Intruder's Gift

I knew something was wrong the moment my front door was unlocked. I clearly remembered

locking it that morning. Deadbolt. Habit. Muscle memory.

But when I pushed the door open that night, it swung inward without resistance.

At first, I told myself I was imagining things. The house was

quiet. Too quiet. No TV noise. Just silence hanging heavy in the

air. I stepped inside and noticed the smell, subtle,

but unfamiliar. Like someone else's cologne mixed with dust. I froze.

Nothing looked disturbed at first. Shoes still by the door. Couch pillows untouched.