Michael’s dreams grew darker. He saw shadows moving in his attic, heard footsteps pacing the halls. Each morning, he checked the rooms with a soldier’s caution, pulse tight, but always found nothing. It was as though the house itself mocked him, hiding the truth in plain sight.
One afternoon, while rummaging for batteries, he found a notebook shoved behind canned goods. Its pages were filled with lists—grocery items, repairs, errands. The handwriting wasn’t Sarah’s. The neat, steady lines spoke of someone disciplined, someone deliberate. Michael stared at it, bile rising, before shoving it back.