The lights are dim. The air smells faintly of the jasmine candle you lit before your shower. Everything is where it should be. Your bag hangs by the door. Your phone charges on the nightstand. The balcony door is cracked open, letting in the cool autumn breeze.

You settle onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your legs. A glass of water on the coffee table. Your reflection in the dark window across the room — tired, but satisfied.

You reach for your phone.

And then you see it.

A small slip of paper, folded once, resting on the corner of the coffee table. You didn't put it there.

No one else has been here tonight.

You pick it up. The paper is smooth, slightly warm to the touch — as if it's been in someone's hand recently. You unfold it.

The candle flickers. The breeze from the balcony shifts the curtain.