A window contact clicked from closed to open to closed in delicate succession. He sent a final camera glitch—porch presence briefly obscured by an elbow, or maybe a shoulder. The whisper returned, almost amused: “Keys, then upstairs.” His aunt sobbed. His aunt mouthed the words call someone, but didn’t move herself.
Marco kept the phones online. Let them call if they truly wished. But he also sensed fear prefers whispering to dialing, and pacing to deciding. He scheduled three cabinet taps, two soft door thumps, and a retreating footstep that never fully retreated. The house performed. The audience perspired. Nobody applauded, which was perfect.