But here’s the twist:
It didn’t exist.
Fake name.
Fake number.
Fake registration.
The address led to an empty building.
And the man who came into our home?
No record.
No identity.
Nothing.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
A week later, the police came back.
They had analyzed the device.
And what they told me changed everything.
It wasn’t just recording.
It was transmitting data in real time.
To a nearby receiver.
Close enough to connect without internet.
Close enough to stay hidden.
Close enough to be watching.
“Watching from where?” I asked.
The officer hesitated.
Then pointed.
Not outside.
Not down the street.
But directly across from Lily’s bedroom window.
To the vacant house we had always ignored.
They searched it.
Inside, they found a chair.
Empty food containers.
And a single monitor.
Still on.
Still connected.
But no person.
Whoever had been there… left just in time.
That night, I didn’t sleep.
Lily slept beside me, safe.
But I kept thinking about one thing she said.
Not about the bed.
Not about the man.
But about the dream.
A few days later, I asked her gently,
“What did he say to you?”
She looked at me, confused.
“Who?”
“The man in your dream.”
She shrugged.
“He wasn’t talking to me.”
My chest tightened.