When I finally unfolded the crumpled note, I expected something simple.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A thank-you. Maybe a blessing. Something polite and forgettable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Instead, my stomach tightened as I read the uneven handwriting:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThey are watching you. Check your door camera from tonight at 2:17 AM.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at the paper, unsure whether to laugh or feel uneasy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis has to be a joke,\u201d I muttered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Continue reading on next page\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n Still, something about it didn\u2019t sit right. Maybe it was the way he said it. Calm. Certain. Not desperate or confused\u2014just\u2026 sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I glanced at the clock. It was already past midnight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Curiosity got the better of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I opened the app connected to my door camera and scrolled back to the time on the note: 2:17 AM<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a moment, nothing happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then the footage loaded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At first, it looked normal. Snow falling quietly. The empty street. My front door, still and silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then\u2014movement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A figure stepped into view.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My breath caught.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It wasn\u2019t someone I recognized. They wore a dark coat, hood pulled low, face mostly hidden. They didn\u2019t knock. They didn\u2019t try the handle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They just stood there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Watching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For nearly two full minutes, they didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then, slowly\u2026 they leaned closer to the camera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Close enough that I could almost make out their face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And then\u2014just like that\u2014they turned and walked away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I paused the video, my hands suddenly cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIs this real?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next morning, I couldn\u2019t shake the feeling. The note. The footage. The timing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It didn\u2019t feel random.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That evening, I went back to the shawarma stand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The same vendor was there. The same cold air, biting at my face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But the man?<\/p>\n\n\n\n Gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked around, scanning the sidewalks, the corners, even the nearby alley.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHey,\u201d I asked the vendor, \u201cthe man who was here last night\u2026 with the dog. Where is he?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The vendor frowned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat man?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe one sitting right here,\u201d I said, pointing. \u201cHe asked for hot water.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The vendor shook his head. \u201cYou must be mistaken. No one was here last night.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the weather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI bought him food,\u201d I insisted. \u201cYou were here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The vendor looked confused\u2026 almost uneasy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI closed early yesterday,\u201d he said. \u201cStorm was too bad. No customers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stepped back, my mind racing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That wasn\u2019t possible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I remembered everything. The smell of the food, the warmth of the coffee in my hands\u2026 the way the man looked straight at me when he gave me the note.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It felt real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Too real.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, I checked the camera again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 2:17 AM.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n This time, the street was empty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No figure. No movement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Just snow falling in silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t know who that man was.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t know how he knew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But every night since then, I lock my doors a little earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And sometimes\u2026 just sometimes\u2026 I think about that note.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And the strange feeling that someone, somewhere, decided I needed to see it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" When I finally unfolded the crumpled note, I expected something simple. A thank-you. Maybe a blessing. Something polite and forgettable.…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":15822,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15821","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15821","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15821"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15821\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15823,"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15821\/revisions\/15823"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15822"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15821"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15821"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tbdig.com\/sirbenet\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15821"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}