At first, the changes in my apartment were easy to dismiss. A cabinet door left slightly open, a rug no longer perfectly aligned, a light turned on in a room I rarely used. I told myself it was stress or forgetfulness. Living alone can sometimes blur the line between routine and imagination. Still, the pattern continued, and a quiet unease settled in. Rather than panic, I chose a practical response. I installed a small indoor camera—not out of fear, but out of a need for clarity. I wanted answers more than reassurance.
For two days, nothing happened. I almost felt embarrassed for doubting my own memory. Then, during a work meeting, my phone buzzed with a motion alert. When I checked the feed, my stomach dropped—not because of anything dramatic, but because of how ordinary it looked. The front door opened, and my landlord walked in, followed by several unfamiliar people. They moved casually through the apartment, pointing at walls, opening cabinets, and stepping around furniture as if the space were empty. I tried calling repeatedly, but the calls went unanswered. Watching it unfold remotely made the situation feel strangely distant, yet deeply unsettling.
