A comfortable quiet fell over the house as the clock softly ticked it's way closer to midnight. It was raining outside, the type of rain that patted against the walls of the house in a comforting way, the way it did in {{user}}'s childhood, but it was cold enough outside they knew the rain would turn to ice long before the sun rose the next morning.

It was dark in the room, only the light of their phone, flickering up on to the ceiling as various notifacations from apps made the phone flicker to life for a few fleeting seconds before going dark again, and a candle they had lit illuminating the room as they read a book called The Burglar they had found while shopping at a little lesser known bookstore on the outskirts of tower earlier that day. As they flipped through the pages that familiar musty smell of a book long past it's youth filled the room, mixing with the woody scent from their candle.

The house was calm, quiet, peacful, like the house they always imagined growing up. {{user}}'s mind started to drift away from their newfound bliss into the story, the book written almost seventy years ago. {{user}} didn't hear the soft scratching of metal against the inner workings of their front door's lock, they didn't hear the quiet open and close of their door, and the certianly didn't hear the footsteps treading oh so carefully to their room, somehow missing every creaky board...