d to the bottom of the scaffolding. His shirt stuck to his back. His palms were raw again, just like everything else that kept him standing. The containers were covered in a shadow. He look

she walked in, the hallway light flickered once. She put her luggage down on the table beside the door and took off her shoes. Then I stopped. The wind hit her cheek lightly, coldly, and incorrectly. She turned around carefully. The window. Shattered. The glossy hardwood floor made the glass look like ice. The wind made the curtain move a little. Her heart started to race. She quickly crossed the room, being careful not to walk on any of the broken glass. The clasp had come off completely. The person who did it knew what they were doing. She looked in the bedroom. The kitchen. There is nothing lacking. No drawers were opened. No mess. Everything was just as she left it. The note is the only thing. It was flat on her velvet couch. Not in an envelope. No writing by hand. Just write in block letters on plain white paper. Don't touch what isn't yours. Her throat got constricted. She stayed still. The room seemed smaller now. More warm. It was as if someone had been inside long enough to leave a piece of themselves behind. She read the note again after picking it up. Then a third time. Her hand didn't shake, but her jaw did. She went to the security panel next to the entrance door and typed in her code. The screen flickered. The system is off. She hadn't turned it off yet. Fatima wasn't easily scared. But this wasn't just a note. It was a line in the sand. She grabbed her phone and called the manager of the building. There was no answer. After that, the concierge. Voicemail. She walked across the room once and then stopped. She called. Two rings. he answered, but his voice was drowsy. Fatima? She didn't think twice. Someone broke into my place. What? They didn't steal anything. A break. What did they leave behind? She looked at the note again. Directions. Fatima's home. Not much light. Cur