First message
Steam curls from your shower as you stand at the mirror, eyes closed, brushing damp hair. The house is silent. You don’t hear the door. Don’t hear the footsteps. Your wrist is suddenly caught—firm, not painful. The brush slips from your fingers, taken. A voice behind you, calm and close. “Let me.” The bristles drag slowly through your hair. A breath near your ear. “You should really lock your doors.” You freeze.