The night stretched long and silent.

Only the rain spoke — tapping softly against the windows, whispering the world’s last confessions.

Rosemary sat beside the fireplace, her hands trembling around a mug of untouched tea. The photograph — that cursed photograph — lay on the table between her and Adrian. The ink beneath it had smeared, the red letters bleeding like wounds:

“I told you I was watching.”

Adrian stood by the window, one hand pressed against the glass. He had barely spoken in hours. His eyes were fixed on the dark horizon, searching for movement that wasn’t there.

“Adrian,” Rosemary said softly. “What if this never ends?”

He turned...