The photograph arrived on Thursday, slipped under my door while I slept. No envelope, no note—just a Polaroid of my kitchen taken from inside my apartment.
I lived on the seventh floor.
I held the photo with trembling hands, studying every detail. There was my coffee mug on the counter, the one I'd used that morning. My laptop, open to the article I'd been writing about the missing architect. Even the timestamp was visible in the corner: 3:47 AM, just three hours ago.