Sarah woke to the gentle glow of dawn filtering through her bedroom blinds. For a moment, she lay still, savoring the quiet before her day began. The apartment felt peaceful, as it always did at this hour. She'd chosen this building three years ago for its security and serenity—a sanctuary in the middle of the bustling city where she could retreat from the demands of her job as a graphic designer at Meridian Marketing.

  The ceiling fan whirred softly overhead, casting rhythmic shadows across the pale blue walls. Sarah had painted them herself, spending an entire weekend transforming the sterile white box into something that felt like home. It was one of the few places she felt truly safe.

  She stretched, mentally preparing for her morning routine when something caught her eye. The framed photo of her parents on the dresser—wasn't it centered yesterday? Now it sat at a slight angle, pushed perhaps an inch to the left. The silver frame gleamed in the morning light, her parents' smiling faces frozen in time at her college graduation.

  *I must have bumped it when I was getting ready for bed.*

  But she couldn't remember touching it. She'd been exhausted last night, falling into bed after a twelve-hour workday without even checking her emails. Sarah felt the first flicker of unease in her stomach.

  She straightened the frame with deliberate precision and headed to the bathroom, trying to shake off the sensation. In the shower, hot water cascading over her shoulders, she found herself replaying small moments from the past week: her coffee mug in a different cabinet, her favorite sweater hung on the wrong side of the closet, the strange feeling that someone had been sitting in her reading chair. The leather had been warm, she was certain of it, when she'd returned from her evening run three days ago.

  *You're being ridiculous,* she told herself as she wrapped a towel around her body. *Twenty-nine years old and jumping at shadows.*

  Her therapist, Dr. Winters, would call it hypervigilance—a side effect of the break-in at her previous apartment five years ago. Sarah had worked hard to overcome the anxiety that followed, but sometimes the old fears resurfaced, especially when she was stressed. And this project for the pharmaceutical client was definitely stress-inducing.

  She wiped the steam from the mirror and studied her reflection. Dark circles shadowed her green eyes, her normally vibrant complexion looking pale. Her damp chestnut hair clung to her neck in spiral tendrils. Sarah had her mother's features—high cheekbones, straight nose, determined chin—but her father's expressive eyes. Everyone always said she'd inherited his intensity too.

  "Just tired," she murmured to her reflection. "You're just tired."

  In the kitchen, Sarah reached for the coffee beans she'd bought just two days ago. The bag felt unusually light. She peered inside—half empty. Hadn't it been nearly full yesterday morning? She frowned, trying to remember if she'd made coffee for anyone else. Michelle had stopped by briefly on Tuesday with fabric samples for her new curtains, but they'd had tea, not coffee. And Sarah hadn't entertained anyone else this week.

  She measured the remaining beans carefully, attempting to dismiss the nagging concern that someone else had helped themselves to her expensive Ethiopian blend. The rich aroma filled her kitchen as the coffee brewed, momentarily grounding her in the familiar.

  Her phone buzzed with a message from Michelle: *Still on for drinks tonight? Jake's bringing his new colleague from the hospital. Might be your type...*

  Sarah smiled despite herself. Michelle had been trying to set her up since the breakup with David eight months ago. Her friend meant well, but Sarah wasn't ready. David's betrayal—finding texts from not one but three other women on his phone—had left her wary of new relationships.

  She typed back a quick confirmation, then set about making breakfast. The refrigerator door swung open to reveal another small mystery—the container of strawberries she'd been saving was gone. She was certain she hadn't eaten them. They'd been plump and red, specially purchased for her morning smoothies.

  She closed the door harder than necessary, the contents rattling inside. That magnetic notepad she kept on the fridge door—had it moved too? Wasn't it usually on the left side?

  "Get it together," she muttered aloud to the empty apartment. The sound of her voice seemed to amplify the solitude rather than diminish it.

  Sarah forced herself to sit at her small kitchen table and eat a bowl of granola, scrolling through her work emails as she chewed mechanically. Three urgent messages from her boss, Marcus, about the pharmaceutical campaign. A reminder about tomorrow's client meeting. A company-wide memo about security badge protocols.

  She had just finished rinsing her bowl when her phone rang—Marcus, probably wondering why she hadn't responded to his emails yet.

  "I was just about to call you," she lied, pressing the phone to her ear.

  "Sarah, thank God." Marcus's voice was tight with stress. "The client moved the meeting up to today at two. They want to see preliminary concepts."

  "Today?" Her stomach dropped. "Marcus, we agreed on tomorrow. I need more time to—"

  "I know, I know. But Novartis is our biggest client, and if VP Phillips wants to see concepts today, we show him concepts today." Marcus's tone left no room for argument. "Just bring what you have. You're always over-prepared anyway."

  Sarah glanced at the clock: 8:17 AM. Less than six hours to refine her ideas into something presentable.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Fine. I'll be there."

  After hanging up, she moved with renewed purpose, gathering her laptop and tablet. On her way out, she patted her jacket pocket for her keys. Not there. She checked her purse, then the hook by the door where she always hung them. Nothing. Ten minutes of increasingly frantic searching led her to find them in her bathroom drawer, nestled between her hairbrush and face wash.

  *I never put them there. Never.*

  The certainty was absolute. Sarah always, always left her keys on the hook or in her purse. Never in a drawer, and certainly not in the bathroom. Her heart began to pound harder as she stared at the keys in her palm, the metal warm against her skin.

  She thought about calling Michelle, but what would she say? *I think someone's been in my apartment, moving my things around by inches?* Even in her head, it sounded paranoid.

  Outside her apartment, Sarah locked her door carefully, giving the handle an extra tug to confirm it was secure. As she turned toward the elevator, movement caught her eye—a man at the end of the hallway, raising his hand in a brief wave. She'd seen him before, one of her neighbors in 5D, though they'd never spoken. Average height, forgettable features, the kind of person who blended into backgrounds.

  He smiled, a quick upward quirk of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. Sarah offered a polite nod and quickened her pace, pulling out her phone and pretending to check messages.

  "Beautiful morning," he called after her.

  "Yes," she responded without turning, relieved when the elevator doors opened immediately.

  In the elevator, she leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. Maybe Michelle was right—she needed to take some time off. The deadline pressure at work, her recent breakup with David, her mother's health scare last month—it was all piling up. Maybe she was just... forgetting things. Dr. Winters had warned her that anxiety could manifest as memory gaps.

  The building's security guard, Walter, nodded to her as she crossed the lobby. His familiar presence was comforting—he'd been there since she moved in, a constant in his pressed uniform and with his observant eyes.

  "Morning, Ms. Prescott," he said, his voice gravelly from decades of cigarettes.

  "Morning, Walter. How's Maya doing with her college applications?"

  His weathered face brightened. "Got an acceptance letter from NYU yesterday. Her mother and I are taking her out to celebrate this weekend."

  "That's wonderful! Tell her congratulations from me."

  The brief exchange settled Sarah somewhat. This was her normal life—conversations with Walter, work stress, plans with Michelle. Nothing sinister lurked beneath the surface. She was allowing her imagination to run wild, that's all.

  But as the glass doors closed behind her, Sarah couldn't shake the crawling sensation between her shoulder blades, the feeling of being watched. She glanced back at the building, her eyes scanning the uniform windows. Was that a curtain moving on the fifth floor? She squinted, but the morning sun created a glare on the glass.

  Outside, the city hummed with morning energy, and Sarah straightened her shoulders, determined to push through the strange fog of anxiety. She had meetings to attend, projects to complete, a life to live. The sidewalk was crowded with fellow commuters, all locked in their private worlds as they navigated toward their destinations.

  At the corner, waiting for the light to change, Sarah noticed a police cruiser idling across the intersection. The officer inside seemed to be looking directly at her. Their eyes met briefly before he turned away, speaking into his radio. Something about his steady gaze disturbed her, though she couldn't have explained why.

  The walk signal flashed, and Sarah moved with the crowd, pulling her jacket tighter despite the mild temperature. She would stop for a triple espresso at the café near her office, work through lunch, and nail the presentation. Then drinks with Michelle and her friends, where she would laugh and act normal and not mention her apartment or the missing strawberries or the keys in the bathroom drawer.

  Yet even as she merged into the stream of commuters, Sarah couldn't escape the nagging thought that something in her carefully ordered world had shifted—something important that she was failing to see. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and a sudden chill ran through her, raising goosebumps on her arms.

  For just a moment, Sarah felt as though she was being followed. She turned sharply, scanning the faces behind her, but saw only strangers, each intent on their own path. No one seemed to be paying her any special attention.

  *Stop it,* she chided herself. *This is how it started last time.*

  After the break-in years ago, she'd become convinced that the burglar was stalking her, watching from parked cars or following her through grocery stores. She'd spiraled for weeks before Dr. Winters had helped her see that her fear was creating phantoms.

  Sarah forced herself to walk at a measured pace, focusing on the day ahead rather than the shadows at her back. She was a rational adult woman with a good job and a secure apartment. Whatever was happening—misplaced items, strange sensations—had a logical explanation.

  Still, as she pushed through the revolving door of her office building, Sarah made a mental note to call the landlord about changing her locks. Just to be safe.