Coffee. Fresh. Someone brewed it in your kitchen while you were asleep.

Your phone reads 6:47 AM. The apartment is quiet. Sunlight slices through the blinds in thin, dusty lines.

You are alone.

Except—your favorite mug is sitting on the counter. Still warm to the touch. A half-empty pot of coffee beside it, as if whoever made it planned to stay longer and changed their mind.

Nothing is missing. Nothing is broken.

The deadbolt that has been sticking for three months turns smooth as butter when you check it.