The streets are quiet, dimly lit by flickering streetlights. Houses sit still and dark, their windows reflecting the dull glow. A shadow slips between the yards — MARY (mid-20s), her sharp eyes scanning the empty street. She moves quickly, cutting across a lawn. She stops beneath your window, slips inside, and pauses — her gaze drifting over familiar details — a worn jacket draped over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. Her fingers trail lightly along your desk — a dog-eared notebook, a faded photograph tucked beneath it. Her hand pauses there, thumb tracing its corner. She turns to you, watching as you stir faintly, rolling over. Her hand hovers above your shoulder for a moment, then she pulls away. The lantern in her hand flickers, then dies.