News spread quickly.

Faster than the investigation.

Faster than the facts.

Everyone in town knew Daniel was the last person seen watching Amara.

And in the absence of certainty, people began filling in the gaps with something far more comfortable than the truth.

They began calling him a murderer.

Someone even threw a stone through his window that night.

Daniel never complained.

He simply sat in his house, staring at the photographs he had taken.

One photograph in particular held his attention.

It was the last picture he had taken of Amara.

He zoomed in.

Her face.

The bus stop.

The streetlight.

The dark road behind her.

He stared at the background.

Then his expression changed.

He zoomed in again.

There was something behind Amara.

A figure.

Barely visible beneath the shadow of a tree.

Daniel had never noticed it before.

He printed the photograph.

Then another.

And another.

By morning, he had covered an entire wall with photographs.

Amara.

The bus stop.

The museum.

The street.

Daniel's own reflection in a shop window.

And, in almost every picture, the same dark figure.

Three days later, the police returned.

“We found something,” the detective said.

Daniel looked up.

“Amara's phone was switched on for eleven seconds the night she disappeared.”

Daniel said nothing.

“Do you know where it was?”

He shook his head.

“Inside the museum.”

Silence.

The detective placed a photograph on the table.

It showed the museum corridor.

Empty.

Except for a shadow at the very end.

“Do you recognise that?”

Daniel stared at it.

His face slowly tightened.

“Yes.”

The detective leaned forward.

“Who?”

Daniel didn't answer.

He picked up the photograph.

Turned it over.

There was something written on the back.

Three words.

YOU SAW ME.

The detective frowned.

“Daniel?”

Daniel looked up.

For the first time since Amara disappeared, he didn't look amused.

He looked afraid.

“I didn't write that.”

“Then who did?”

Daniel slowly turned toward the window.

Across the street, the museum stood silent beneath the evening sky.

Then his eyes moved to the camera sitting on the table.

He picked it up.

Checked the memory card.

There was one new photograph.

Daniel had never taken it.

It showed himself, sitting inside his house.

Taken from somewhere behind him.

Taken only minutes ago.

The detective stared at the screen.

Daniel whispered,

“Someone has been inside my house.”

The detective immediately reached for his gun.

“Where?”

Daniel didn't answer.

Because at that exact moment—

Click.

The sound came from upstairs.

Both men froze.

Then came another.

Click.

Daniel slowly looked toward the staircase.

And smiled.

Not because he was amused.

Because he suddenly recognised the sound.

“That,” he whispered, “is my camera.”