They think standing guard outside her door matters.
They think the police report, the statements, the pitying hand on her shoulder...matters.
It’s adorable, really.
I stand across the street, half-hidden behind the overhang of a bus stop, watching the glow in her living room window.She’s inside—wrapped in someone else’s hoodie, shoulders curled tight, three shadows moving around her like they can build a fortress with their bodies.
Atlas, Finn, Kael.
They’re louder now.Protective.Angry.
Good.
Anger makes people sloppy.
A car passes and I catch a glimpse of her—just a silhouette, small but stubborn, pacing the length of the couch.She’s shaking.She thinks I only rattled her.She thinks I slipped in, slipped out, and she got lucky.
She has no idea how close I was.
How long I stood in her bedroom doorway.
How long I watched her sleep before she startled awake.
She remembers my breath on her cheek.
My fingers on the doorframe.
My voice.
She knows I was here.
What she doesn’t know is how easily I could be again.
She didn’t see the second key I made.
Didn’t notice the small scrape I left in the sill.
Didn’t feel the tiny gap I carved beneath the hinge.
There are always ways in if you’re patient enough.
The boys move into her bedroom now—checking the closet, the windows, under the bed like scared children hunting for monsters.
They’re right to be scared.
Because I didn’t touch her tonight.
I didn’t take anything.
I didn’t leave anything behind.
But the absence is the message.
They can lock every door in that building.
Install cameras.
Set shifts and rules and watch rotations.
