As I lay motionless, trying to control my ragged breathing, I could hear my heart pounding in my ears. The man—a stranger, yet disturbingly familiar—was now in my personal space. My chest tightened with fear, and I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t discover my hiding place.
My mind raced. Who was this intruder, and how did he have access to my home? More importantly, how did he know my name? The questions swirled in my head, each more unsettling than the last.
The man continued to rummage through my belongings, his movements deliberate yet careless, as though he was righting something he felt was wrong. Papers rustled, drawers opened and closed, and I could hear him muttering to himself, his words just out of reach. Straining my ears, I caught fragments of his musings—something about keeping the place in order and maintaining appearances. It was as though he was on a mission, but I couldn’t fathom what that mission might be.
