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An envelope.

It’s tucked halfway under the front door, the edges curling slightly in the cold night air. My stomach tightens as I approach, each step louder than the last.

The paper is plain, the kind you’d find at any corner store, but there’s no stamp or return address. Just my name scrawled across the front in jagged, hurried handwriting.

Lydia.

The sight of it sends a quick shiver through me.

I lower myself slowly, breath hitching, and pick it up. The paper is cold, a little damp, the ink smeared like someone scribbled it down fast.

My eyes dart around, scanning the edges of the trees. They stand still, silent, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up. It’s that feeling, the one you get when you know you’re not alone.

I slip a finger under the flap. It lifts without resistance.

Inside is a single sheet of paper.

Just a few words, written in that shaky, uneven handwriting:

You’re not as invisible as you think.

The paper feels heavier than it should, the message pressing against my chest. My pulse quickens as I fold the note and shove it into my coat pocket. My eyes dart to the yard, the tree line, the empty street beyond.

The silence around me feels alive, buzzing with unseen eyes and unheard whispers.

I unlock the door quickly, stepping inside and locking it behind me. The sound of the bolt sliding into place brings only the faintest relief. The house feels colder than usual, the shadows deeper. The faint hum of the heater doesn’t quite reach the edges of the room, leaving pockets of icy stillness that creep along the floorboards. I flick on a light, the harsh glow spilling across the living room.

My father’s chair sits empty in the corner, the blanket folded neatly across the armrest. But the space feels wrong somehow, like the house itself is holding its breath. The door to his room opens and Janice steps out. She gives me a slight smile, walking toward me.

“He’s had a good day, and went to sleep easily,” she whispers.

“Thank you,” I say.

The note burns in my pocket, a weight I can’t ignore. My fingers twitch, itching to pull it out and read it again, but the thought of those words. You’re not as invisible as you think. The realization makes my stomach churn.

“Do you need anything else, Lydia?”

Yes, I need her to leave. Or maybe to stay so I can leave. I don’t know. I feel like the walls are closing in on me.

“I’m good. Thank you. Really. Go home and get some rest. Tomorrow will be here before we know it.”

She nods, then makes her way to the front door, grabbing her jacket and purse from the hooks on the wall next to the door. She doesn’t say goodbye, or at least I don’t hear it because before the front door clicks shut, I’m already making my way up the stairs and to my room.

One of the journals lies open where I left it on the desk. The pages curling slightly at the edges. Beside it, the photographs are scattered in uneven stacks, the faces staring up at me with hollow, lifeless smiles.

Clyde’s father’s face stands out again, his presence in the photographs suddenly heavier, more menacing.

The shrill ring of the phone slices through the silence, startling me so badly that my knee jerks against the desk. I pull my phone from my back pocket and hit the green button. “Hello?”

There’s a beat of silence before the voice comes through, familiar, raw.

“Lydia.” Clyde’s voice is rough, barely more than a rasp against the static.

I don’t say anything. I can’t. The sound of him, of everything I just left behind, knots my stomach tighter.

“You shouldn’t have come to the house,” he says, low and urgent. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

I press the phone tighter to my ear, the cold from outside still clinging to my skin. “I didn’t do anything but ask your mother questions.”