You notice it the moment you step into the hallway.

The front door is open.

Not wide. Just enough to let in the morning air, the sound of the street outside—distant, normal, real. For a split second, your body reacts before your mind does. Heart racing. Muscles tensing. Memory flashing.

Then you see him.

Mr. Peterson is sitting at the kitchen table, hands folded around a cold cup of coffee. He isn’t looking at the door.

He’s looking at you.

“Oh,” he says calmly, as if this is nothing. “You’re awake.”

He doesn’t move to close the door. Doesn’t acknowledge it at all.

“You slept better last night,” he adds. Not a question. “That’s good.”

The door stays open. He keeps watching you.