He found himself glancing out the window more often, ears pricking at the faintest sounds outside. Each time he circled the yard with his flashlight at night, the hedges and the still water mocked him with their silence.
Yet the next day, new signs would appear: a smudge of mud on the tiles, a wrapper plastered damp against the drain. It left him restless, a prisoner in his own home. Then one afternoon, he found something different. Draped over a patio chair was a t-shirt, sun-bleached and damp with chlorine.