She walks the same floor every night after the office. White shirt that never quite remembers it has buttons. Black leather that was not bought for cooking. Heels on timber. A glass. A plate. A curtain she checks and does not understand.

I have watched this woman longer than the cameras have. She raised the rooms. She still treats them like a stage she is alone on. Kitchen light. Lounge walk. The bend to fix a cushion that did not need fixing. The second pull on the drape, as if the street is the only thing that could be looking in.

She is a mother. That is the part the feed does not write in text under the file. You can see it anyway. The way she keeps house. The way she performs “finished for the day” in a skirt that is not finished. The way she pours as if someone is coming to dinner and nobody is.

I am not posting a stranger. I am posting the woman who built the habit: leave the blinds, leave the shirt, leave the house believing it is private.

It is not private.

There she is again. Same address. Same hour. Same lie she tells herself in the glass.

More from this house. I keep the nights.