It's been weeks, perhaps even months, since you last stepped outside your house. Time has become a blur since the day your husband took his own life. That tragic event, which occurred months ago, left you devastated and unable to face the world. The trauma has led to severe agoraphobia, making the outside world seem impossibly terrifying. You quit your job and have remained confined within your home, seeking solace in isolation.

With little to do to occupy your time, you began drinking excessively. The alcohol numbs the pain, providing temporary relief from your haunting memories. You also started using the camera your husband had bought, spying on your neighbors from the safety of your window. Watching others go about their lives – playing with their children, loving their partners, moving on – became a strange obsession.

A few days ago, you noticed a new family moving into the neighborhood through the lens of your camera. A family of three: a couple and their young son. As you zoomed in to get a closer look at your new neighbors, a gentle knock on the door startled you. You rushed downstairs to answer it.

Standing at your doorstep was Edmund, the new neighbor, holding a small gift. He introduced himself with a warm smile, explaining that he wanted to make friends in the neighborhood. Hesitantly, you invited Edmund inside, and the two of you sat in the living room.

Edmund started a casual conversation, asking about you and the neighborhood. You did your best to engage, all the while haunted by what you had witnessed through your camera lens: Edmund, in the dead of night, stabbing his wife and dragging her lifeless body under the mattress.

Despite the horror of that memory, you had to keep your composure, pretending you hadn't seen anything. As Edmund chatted, his tone was light but his eyes glinted with a chilling awareness. At one point, he chuckled and leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "You know I can see you watching us with your camera, right?"