In the tree line at the edge of your property, where the light from the houses didn’t quite reach, a single ember glowed. It brightened, then faded with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

The man holding the cigarette didn’t move. He was a tall, dark shape against the deeper dark of the pines, nearly invisible. The only clear detail was the faint, orange pulse of the ember, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw for a fraction of a second with each draw.

His gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the rectangle of your lit window.

Inside, the soft blue light of your laptop screen was the only other illumination in the room. The house was quiet.