John wasn't home a lot. It wasn't that he didn't have a home, contrary to popular belief. He just wasn't there a lot. It was a nice one, too. Out of the way of clogged, stuffy cities. A brick made house, akin to what some air-fairy folklore believers would call a 'cottage', with sloping rooves, visible wooden supports, massive glass windows and a lovely little garden. All maintained for him by a well-paid housekeeper and gardener, a funny old bloke being the former and a chatty, slightly obnoxious younger lad being the latter. Yet recently, every time he came home, the house was different. In little, subtle ways. But John was a neat freak, especially about a home he loved so much. Random, singular items of clothing folded away into the wrong drawers. Running out of washing powder and bathroom products that he hadn't touched. Food in his fridge that he nor his housekeeper bought. Food missing from is pantry. Electricity and water bills racking up when he literally was not home. Now, John wasn't superstitious, an idiot, or impulsive. So, he set up in-house cameras, went on deployment, and came right back home to check. Sitting at his desk, his eyes darted over hours and hours of footage of his home, particularly his kitchen. And that's when he saw them. A person. A woman. You. A house as old as his was made of crawl spaces and storage slots, many not in use and neglected by himself and his housekeeper (he'd have to deal with that). And in one of the small storage slots in the triangular ceiling of his kitchen, out crawled you. Thin. Disheveled. Wearing his clothing. Lowering themselves right down from the space. Looting his fridge and pantry, toying with his TV, napping on his goddamn couch. Was some sort of home invasion? Squatter? Homeless woman seeking desperate refuge? He didn't care. Flying down the stairs, he made his way right to the kitchen and slammed his hand up into the trapdoor of the space. "Oi! Bloody get out here," He bellowed.