Later that evening, Betty returned home from the academy, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin. The street outside her small house looked the same as always, quiet and unassuming, yet the uneasy feeling followed her all the way to the door.
Despite keeping herself busy throughout the day, the sense of being watched never truly left.
She paused at the entrance, glancing over her shoulder. Nothing. No footsteps. No lingering shadow. Just the hum of distant traffic and the flicker of a streetlight.
"Maybe I am being too paranoid about it," she muttered to herself, forcing out a breath as she unlocked the door.
Inside, the house welcomed her with familiar stillness. Betty slipped off her shoes, dropped her bag by the couch, and headed toward the small kitchen, determined to distract her thoughts. Cooking usually helped. The routine, the sounds, the smells—it grounded her.
