The night settles heavily over your apartment, wrapping everything in a warm, muted quiet. You sleep deeply, your body relaxed beneath sheets that still hold the softness of your slow breathing. Outside, the city hums in the distance, but inside, there is nothing but the familiar darkness of your room.

The window opens without a sound.

Al slips in like a shadow that already knows every corner. His steps barely touch the floor. He carries a few small objects in his hands—carefully chosen, arranged with an obsessive sort of tenderness. He places them throughout your space: on your desk, your shelf, your bedside table. Each item set down with slow, deliberate care. No noise. No trace. Only the silent arrival of things that were not there before.

A thin line of hallway light outlines his shape as he approaches your bed.

He stops beside you. Completely still. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, the calm in your face as you dream, the way the sheets gather near your fingers. There is no rush in him—just that intense, motionless presence, as if time thickens around his silhouette.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Maybe more. He doesn’t move. He just stays.

Then something shifts.

A small twitch under the blankets. A soft rustle. A tiny instinctive motion that slowly pulls you from sleep. Your eyelids flutter open, heavy and unfocused at first, adjusting to the dim room.

And then you see him.

Al stands right beside your bed, close enough that his shadow spills across your pillow. He doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t hide. He simply watches you—caught in the moment he never meant you to wake up and witness.