Morning sunlight filtered through the blinds. I shuffled to the kitchen, groggy and still buzzing with leftover fear. Aiden, my older brother and semi-professional musician, was flipping pancakes like it was Sunday brunch.

"Why are you up?" I grumbled.

"Because you’re not," he said, flipping one like a pro. "Also, some guy came by this morning. Said it was for you. Left this."

He handed me a brown paper bag. Inside? A container of chocolate chip pancakes. Still warm.

There was a note: Sorry about the dream. – S.

Seth? How would he—?

My skin went cold. Was that even possible? Could they really do that? Enter someone’s mind?

"You good?" Aiden asked, noticing my expression.

"Yeah," I lied. Again.

I pulled out my phone. No messages. No calls. But now I knew they weren’t just neighbours. Something about them was watching me. Reading me.

And if they could get inside my head... what else could they do?

I brought the pancakes to the table and picked at one without tasting it. Aiden turned on the TV, some news segment about construction on Riverside. I barely heard it.

By the time I got to my room, the roses were still fresh.

I walked to the window. Alexander was there, writing again.

I didn’t open the blinds.

But I didn’t close them either.