My parents gave me an old one-bedroom apartment, and I was overwhelmed with happiness. I did most of the repairs myself, with help from my dad, and worked hard to make it feel like home. When everything was finally finished, I stepped into the stairwell to chat with a neighbor and accidentally left my door open. I was gone for only five minutes.
When I came back, my heart dropped. The apartment looked different—not damaged or messy, just subtly changed. A crooked picture frame was straightened. A blanket was neatly placed over the chair. The lighting felt warmer. Nothing was missing, but someone had clearly been inside.I stood frozen until I heard footsteps behind me. It was my neighbor—the same one I’d just spoken to.
