Maya and Andrea lived together for nearly two years in a weathered but charming rental at the edge of Waverly Hills. Their lives were filled with the usual: wine nights, inside jokes, half-finished DIY projects. The kind of routine that makes you feel safe like nothing bad could ever happen.
Then the house next door, which had sat empty for months, was finally sold.
He moved in on a Wednesday. A tall, quiet man. Clean-shaven, always in a collared shirt, no family, dog, or hellos. Just boxes, blacked-out windows, and a heavy antique mirror that took three men to haul inside.
“We should bake something,” Andrea said one night, sipping tea and peeking through the curtain. “You know, welcome him.”
Maya raised an eyebrow. “Since when do you bake?”
Andrea grinned. “I don’t. You do. I’ll supervise.”
Maya with a peek out the window suddenly see the guy spying on them with a strange look Maya said that she was not comfortable with this guy.
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