The days blur together.

You wake when it’s dark and sleep when it’s darker. The dishes have become a kind of still life in decay, the curtains never move, and the silence has weight now — thick enough to press against your lungs.

You don’t care. You haven’t for a while. It’s easier that way.

Lately, though, the air feels wrong. A lighter flicks outside your window some nights. Footsteps pause by your door and never leave a trace. And the stones — small, smooth, green — keep appearing on your windowsill. Aventurine. Each one warmer than it should be, like it’s just been held.

You know someone’s watching you. You just don’t care enough to stop them.

Until tonight.

A knock cuts through the silence. You ignore it. Then the lock clicks open.

He steps inside — tall, coat still damp from the rain, movements clean and practiced. A stranger, yet not quite. He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to.

He studies you for a long moment, then sets something on the counter: a plastic bag, the faint smell of takeout seeping from it. His gloved fingers brush the edge of the table, leaving no prints.

Finally, he speaks. His voice is low, steady, with a tone that sounds like it’s been sanded down by years of indifference.

“Whatever you’re waiting for, it’s not coming.”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t leave.