Jonas

Nothing.

I flipped the bolt, set the chain, and went back to bed with the hallway light still on.

I didn't sleep, just waited for light to come.

The final time it happened was maybe a week later, during the first real snow of the season.

Just flurries, nothing sticking yet.

I was in the basement doing laundry when I heard distinct footsteps upstairs, just across the kitchen, heel to toe.

I froze.

It was the kind of sound that leaves no doubt someone is up there with you.

I stood by the dryer for what felt like forever, just listening, not even breathing.

Then, after a long stretch of silence, I heard a person outside, a soft, distant flutter.

It was the only reason I let myself go up.

When I stepped into the kitchen, every single drawer was open.

Not ransacked, just open, pulled out to full extension.

Neat, almost surgical.

On the counter, on a white dinner plate, was the bird that same stiff, dried-out bird I had thrown out weeks earlier.

Same cold feet, same angle, same size.

I didn't stay.

I didn't stay.

I grabbed my bag and left.

Drove to my cousin Marla's place in Akron and slept on her pillow couch for a month.