I was making myself a sandwich in the kitchen when John Mercer walked in and immediately started digging through the fridge like it owed him money. “Hey, Hal, have you seen my leftovers from last night?” he asked, his head buried behind the door like a raccoon in a trash can.
I shook my head. “Nope. Haven’t seen them.”
He grunted, which is John’s version of accepting devastating news, and kept searching. As I finished assembling my sandwich, I noticed Mr. Whiskers sitting on the counter, completely still, staring at one very specific spot on the wall like it had personally offended him.
Now, normally, I would’ve ignored it. Mr. Whiskers once stared at a chair leg for forty-five minutes. But this was different. This wasn’t casual, recreational staring. This was focused. Intentional. Targeted.
“Hey,” I said, nudging John. “Look at him.”
John glanced over for half a second. “Yeah. Cat.”
“No, not just cat,” I said. “Look at where he’s looking.”
John sighed the way people do when they realize a conversation is about to ruin their day. “Hal…”
I stepped closer to the wall. There was something there. The light hit it just right—just enough to catch a tiny, sharp reflection.
Shiny.
Too shiny.
“Do you see that?” I said.
“No,” John said immediately, which told me he absolutely did see it and had decided not to get involved.
I leaned in. “That’s not normal wall behavior.”
“Normal wall behavior?” John repeated.
“Yeah,” I said. “Walls don’t reflect like that unless they’ve got something embedded in them.”
John slowly closed the fridge. “I’m going to stop you right there.”
But it was already too late. My brain had locked in.
Hidden device.
Observation point.
Surveillance.
And suddenly, everything made sense in the way things only make sense when they absolutely do not.
For the rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t leave it alone. I kept circling back to that spot, pretending to do normal things—drink water, check my phone, exist casually—while very obviously staring at the wall like I was trying to out-stare it.
By the time Pandora came over that evening, I had upgraded from “concerned” to “actively investigating.”
“You won’t believe what I found out about this building,” I told her the second she walked in.
She didn’t even take her jacket off. “That’s never a good start.”
I launched into it anyway—former owners, vague forum posts, “patterns” I may or may not have connected myself. I even pointed at the wall like it was going to confess under pressure.
Pandora listened, arms crossed, the way people listen when they’re deciding whether to humor you or call someone.
“Hal,” she said carefully, “don’t you think you might be jumping to conclusions?”
“No,” I said, immediately and confidently, because I had already passed the point where doubt was allowed. “If anything, I think I’m the only one taking this seriously.”
Right on cue, John walked in.
“What are we taking seriously?” he asked.
Pandora gestured toward me. “He thinks there’s a hidden camera in the wall.”
John didn’t even hesitate. “There’s not.”
“That’s exactly what someone benefiting from the camera would say,” I replied.
John blinked. “Benefiting?”
I pointed at him. “Your missing leftovers.”
He stared at me. “You think I’m running a surveillance operation for food?”
“I’m just saying,” I said, “the timeline lines up.”
Pandora physically turned away from both of us at that point, which I took as emotional overwhelm from the truth.
We sat down to eat, but I couldn’t focus. Mr. Whiskers had repositioned himself and was now staring at the wall from a different angle.
A different angle.
Like he was triangulating.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
“What now?” John asked.
“He moved,” I said. “He’s adjusting his vantage point.”
John put his fork down. “It’s a cat, Hal. Not a field operative.”
“Then explain the consistency,” I said.
“No,” John said. “I’m not doing that.”
After dinner, Pandora started doing the dishes while I positioned myself near the wall again. The reflection had changed—subtle, but different.
Pulsing.
Not blinking. Not flickering.
Pulsing.
Like it knew I knew.
My heart kicked up. I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture.
“Pandora,” I said, walking over. “Look at this.”
She dried her hands and leaned in. “Hal… that’s light.”
“That’s what they want you to think.”
She stared at me for a long second. “You’re starting to scare me.”
“I’m starting to understand,” I corrected.
When she left, she gave me that look—the one that says, “I care about you, but also I’m not staying here for whatever this becomes.”
John went straight to the couch and put on something loud, which I’m pretty sure was intentional counter-surveillance.
And me?
I stayed.
I sat in the armchair, lights low, watching the wall.
Waiting.
Mr. Whiskers jumped up beside me, curled into a tight ball, but his eyes stayed open—locked onto the same exact spot.
Silent.
Focused.
Alert.
We didn’t say anything, obviously, because he’s a cat.
But there was an understanding there.
We were in this together now.
Hours passed. Nothing happened.
No movement. No sound. No reveal.
Just the quiet hum of the apartment and the occasional Netflix explosion from the living room.
Eventually, a thought crept in.
What if…
What if this was nothing?
What if it really was just light?
I sat there, staring at the wall, waiting for it to prove me wrong.
It didn’t.
Mr. Whiskers blinked once, stretched, and promptly fell asleep.
Traitor.
I leaned back in the chair, the weight of it settling in.
Maybe I had pushed it too far.
Maybe I’d built something out of nothing.
Or…
Maybe it just wasn’t ready yet.
I glanced at the wall one last time before heading to bed.
Still.
Silent.
Waiting.
Yeah.
Definitely waiting.
Or so I told myself.