We don’t live in that condo anymore, but it’s a place I still think about. It was our first home—two bedrooms, sunlight in every corner, and the beginning of our life together. After we moved into a bigger space, we decided to rent it out. But during a short break between tenants, I stopped by to check on it—and noticed something strange.
Muddy footprints trailed from the front door to the living room. They weren’t mine.
At first, I chalked it up to a maintenance worker who might’ve entered the wrong unit. But something about the air inside felt… unsettled. Nothing was missing, so I cleaned up and left. But a few days later, I returned and saw it again—fresh footprints. This time, I noticed faint scratches near the door’s lock. It didn’t feel like an accident anymore.
I called my husband, Eric, from the car. He told me to change the locks and file a police report. I did both. For a little while, things seemed back to normal. But then, the small things began.
A coffee mug wasn’t where I remembered leaving it. A blanket had been folded differently. A chair was slightly out of place. These weren’t signs of theft—just subtle details. Details only someone familiar with the place would notice. I checked the drawer where I kept an old watch and a spare key. Both were gone.
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