This house holds its breath before dawn.
Curtains drawn like closed eyes.
A quiet street, too quiet —
parked cars lined up like they know something.

Inside, the clock doesn’t tick.
It silently waits.

Floorboards remember every step
I’ve taken at this hour,
every night I told myself
it’s just another morning starting early.

The kettle hums low, unsure.
A light clicks on in the kitchen.
Outside, nothing moves.

I check my phone.

Seen.

Not replied.
Not missed.
Just acknowledged, like a mark on a list.

The walls feel closer when the screen glows.
Shadows stretch where they shouldn’t.
The hallway mirror refuses to reflect anything useful.

I tell myself it’s only a word.
Four letters.
Nothing supernatural about that.

Still —
the streetlamp flickers, once.
A car alarm breathes, then stops.
The house settles in a way that sounds like listening.

I check again.

Seen.

The message stays where it is,
pinned in time.
No typing bubble.
No escape.

Somewhere in the house,
a floorboard creaks —
not underfoot,
but as if remembering how it felt.

I don’t move.
Neither does the street.

I wonder when being noticed
started feeling like being chosen.
I wonder when silence learned my name.

The screen dims.
The word remains.

Seen.

Outside, the quiet street keeps watch.
Inside, the house does not deny it.

And I realise —
whatever saw me
had no reason
to answer.

Written By MCapture