The thought hit hard. Undeniable. Her routine was meticulous; crafted out of necessity, not habit. She never left it out.
A chill crept up her neck.
She hovered, fingers inches from the cover.
But she didn’t touch it.
Couldn’t.
Something inside her pulled back. Instinct deeper than fear.
Nothing broken. Nothing forced. But the room felt… off.
Her bedroom.
The thought hit like a flashbulb.
Had she left the door open? No. She would’ve remembered.
She stepped closer. Each breath shallow. Each motion deliberate.
She nudged the door wider.
At first glance: nothing.
Bed made. Closet closed. Everything where it belonged.
Except—
The bracelet.
The one she always kept in the small dish beside the jewelry box.
Unclasped.
She never left it that way.
But what would she even say?
That her bracelet was undone?
That her journal had moved?
It sounded like paranoia.
But it wasn’t.
She knew it wasn’t.
She pressed her back to the wall and slid to the floor, knees drawn to her chest, her breathing jagged and uneven.
The journal.
The bracelet.
Small things. But too exact. Too intimate.
Not a burglary. Not a break-in.
