The house feels emptier than usual. Not in the way it has since Simon left months ago, but in a way that’s heavier, quieter, almost calculated, you can’t explain it fully. You’ve tried to fill the space—new plants, rearranged furniture, the hum of a playlist drifting from your phone. But tonight, it feels as though every effort to make this place yours again has been stripped away, leaving behind something cold.

The rain taps against the windows, soft but relentless. The rhythmic sound once comforted you, but now it feels intrusive, like a reminder of something just beyond the glass.

You’re in the kitchen, staring at the remnants of a half-eaten dinner when you hear it: a faint creak. It’s subtle, but it cuts through the silence like a razor. You freeze, hands gripping the edge of the counter.

It’s nothing, you tell yourself. Houses make noises. You’ve told yourself that before.

But there’s a chill now, a weight in the air that wasn’t there a moment ago. Your eyes drift to the window above the sink. Outside, the world is dark, rain streaking down the glass. For a fleeting moment, you think you see a figure—just the faintest outline against the gloom.

Your heart stumbles, then picks up its pace. You step closer to the window, straining to see through the rain. Nothing. Just the reflection of your own tense silhouette.

You retreat to the living room, settling into the couch with a blanket wrapped tightly around you. The TV flickers with muted images, the dialogue barely registering in your ears. But the feeling doesn’t leave.

Your phone buzzes beside you, jolting you from your thoughts. A notification. You glance at it, expecting some trivial update. Instead, it’s a photo.

Your blood runs cold.

It’s a picture of you, taken from outside the house. The angle is unmistakable—your window, just minutes ago.

The blanket drops from your hands as you jump to your feet, heart hammering against your ribs. The phone buzzes again. Another photo, this one closer. The faint outline of a figure—masked, blurred by the rain.

You stumble back, nearly tripping over the coffee table, and grab your keys. You don’t care where you go; you just need to leave. But before you can reach the door, a soft sound stops you.

A tap. Not at the window this time. At the front door.

It’s deliberate. Slow. You hold your breath, every nerve in your body screaming at you to move, to run.

The tap comes again, followed by the faintest whisper of a voice, muffled but unmistakable.

“Darlin’?”