“He’s here,” I whispered. “He’s in my house right now.”
They were already nearby, waiting.
As I watched, the intruder didn’t just move furniture this time. He went deeper.
He opened drawers. Pulled out photo albums. Rifled through my documents.
Then he walked into my bedroom on camera, opened my closet, and picked up one of my late husband’s old sweaters.
He held it against his chest… then dropped it on the floor like trash.
It felt personal. Like he wanted me to know I wasn’t safe anywhere in my own home.
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