You make it halfway down Alder Street before your hands stop shaking enough to check the mirror.

The house sits exactly the way you left it. The porch light is on. You don't remember leaving it on.

Your phone hasn't stopped buzzing since the engine caught. Mom — three missed calls, then: "BABY ANSWER ME."

And one more message, from a number with no name. Two words.

You read it at the red light. You wish you hadn't.

At the curb, in front of your empty house —
the mailbox flag is up.

The closet door opens from the outside. A hand — ordinary, patient — reaches in.

The last thing you hear is your own phone buzzing in your pocket.