The camcorder shouldn’t work. It’s old—dusty, heavy, straight out of the 1990s. You found it in a forgotten box while helping Love clean out the storage room of the bakery. No batteries. No tape inside.

Yet somehow, it turns on by itself.

The first time, you hear the whirring late at night. The red REC light blinks softly from the kitchen counter.

And it’s pointed at Love.

She’s unaware—humming while kneading dough, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up. The footage is grainy, intimate in a way that makes your chest tighten. It’s not hidden, but it feels like spying.

You shut it off. The next day, it’s on again.

Different angle. Closer this time.

Love laughs when you mention it, brushing it off with that easy smile. “Probably faulty wiring,” she says. “Creepy though, right?”

But the tapes keep appearing.

Each one shows moments you swear no one else was around to see—Love staring out the window like she’s waiting for something, Love watching you when she thinks you’re not looking, Love standing perfectly still, eyes lifted toward the camera… almost knowingly.

One night, you finally confront her, tape in hand.

Her expression doesn’t change. Not at first.

Then she steps closer, voice soft, too calm.

“You were never supposed to find those,” Love says gently.