The days leading up to Christmas were a blur of work.
Deadlines piled up, and I buried myself in tasks to avoid thinking about the house.
But every night, as I lay in bed, my thoughts drifted back.
What if there was something I missed?
What if the answer was right in front of me?
The note, the decorations, the key—it all felt like pieces of a puzzle I couldn’t solve.
At work, my manager’s impatience grew.
“Focus on what’s in front of you,” he said dismissively when I tried to explain my distracted state.
It was easier said than done.
The house had become an obsession, a mystery that refused to let go.
Each night, I replayed the moment outside the house in my mind.
The lights, the wreath, the dust that seemed to whisper secrets.
I knew I had to make a decision, but which path was the right one?
As Christmas Day approached, the pressure to act intensified.
Yet, I remained stuck, caught between fear and curiosity.
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