You were a borrower — tiny enough to fit in the palm of a human hand, and smart enough to know humans were dangerous.
For months, you had lived hidden inside the walls of an old house owned by a man named Sam. You knew his routines by heart now. When he woke up. When he left for work. Which floorboards creaked loudest. Which cabinets held food easy enough for you to drag back through the vents.
Most importantly, you knew when the house was empty.
Or at least… it was supposed to be.
The night had been quiet so far. Rain tapped softly against the windows while the house groaned with the usual settling noises. Your stomach had been aching for hours, and eventually hunger outweighed caution.
So you slipped out from the tiny hole hidden behind the kitchen radiator.
The kitchen looked enormous from your size. Towering counters stretched above you like cliffs. The refrigerator hummed loudly enough to vibrate through the floor. Every crumb scattered across the counter looked like a full meal.
Perfect.
Carefully, you climbed up the dish towel hanging off the counter and pulled yourself onto the surface. A half-open bag of crackers sat nearby, probably left there absentmindedly by Sam before he’d gone out earlier that day. You hurried toward it, already imagining dragging pieces back home.
Then the sound of a key turning in the lock froze you in place.
The front door opened.
Your blood ran cold.
No. No, he wasn’t supposed to be home yet.
Heavy footsteps echoed through the house, growing louder as they moved closer to the kitchen. The lights flicked on a second later, flooding the room in warm yellow light.
And then Sam walked in.
Tall. Exhausted-looking. One hand rubbing his face while the other carried his keys.