I’m staring at Pandora, trying to figure out why she seems distracted today.
We’re in the living room. Mr. Whiskers is stretched across her lap, and she’s petting him, but it’s automatic. Like her hand is doing it out of habit while her mind is somewhere else.
That’s what’s bothering me.
She’s here.
But she’s not really here.
John Mercer walks in, yawns, and heads straight to the kitchen without saying anything. A cabinet opens. Something rustles.
Normal.
Everything about this is normal.
Which is exactly why it’s not sitting right.
Karen called earlier, wanting to catch up. Pandora shut it down immediately—said she was busy with work.
That’s fine.
That makes sense.
Except it was too quick.
No hesitation. No “maybe later.” Just… done.
Like she already had the answer ready.
I shift slightly in my seat and watch her.
Nothing.
Still petting the cat. Still not looking up.
I tell myself to drop it.
People get distracted. Work happens. Not everything needs to mean something.
But then my brain does what it always does.
Replays it.
Karen calls.
Pandora shuts it down.
No pause.
No thought.
I lean back and look toward the window.
That’s when I notice it.
Mrs. Jenkins.
Across the street.
Standing near her window.
Not moving.
Just… there.
I blink.
She shifts slightly, like she was already looking in this direction and didn’t expect to be noticed.
Then she turns away.
Slowly.
Okay.
That’s something.
Not a big thing.
But something.
I sit up a little straighter now.
The room feels different.
Same furniture. Same people. Same quiet hum of the house.
But now I’m aware of it.
Aware that someone was looking in.
I glance back at Pandora.
Still the same.
Still distant.
John’s in the kitchen, moving around, completely unconcerned.
Which makes me wonder—
how often does that happen?
How often has Mrs. Jenkins been standing there, looking in, and I just didn’t notice?
I try to think back.
She did mention a noise complaint last week.
Said she’d been “hearing things.”
At the time, it sounded like nothing.
Now it feels like an excuse.
An excuse to pay attention to us.
To watch.
I shift again, this time more deliberately.
Pandora still doesn’t look up.
Mr. Whiskers flicks his tail once, then settles again, but his ears twitch toward the window.
That’s new.
He doesn’t usually react like that unless something catches his attention.
I follow his line of sight.
The window.
Nothing there now.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
I glance toward the front door, then back to the kitchen.
John steps back into the living room with a snack, scrolling through his phone.
Completely normal.
Too normal.
No reaction to anything.
No awareness of the shift I’m feeling.
Which makes me wonder if I’m the only one noticing it.
Or the only one who’s supposed to notice it.
I don’t like that thought.
I push it away.
Try to reset.
Pandora’s distracted.
John’s eating.
Mrs. Jenkins was at her window.
All explainable.
All separate.
Except—
it doesn’t feel separate.
It feels connected.
Not in a big, dramatic way.
Just… enough.
Enough to make me pay attention.
Enough to make me notice that Pandora hasn’t said a word in the last few minutes.
Enough to make me realize John hasn’t even looked toward the window once.
And enough to make me think that maybe—
just maybe—
this isn’t the first time someone’s been watching.