And then I heard a man’s voice—low, irritated:
“You’ve scattered everything again…”
He said my name.
That voice was all too familiar. And I was horrified, realizing who this mysterious stranger was.
I learned the truth later, after it was all over.
My landlord came to my house every time I left for work. He had his own keys. He knew my schedule: what time I left, what time I returned. I told him about it myself—casually, out of habit, without thinking.
He didn’t come to steal anything. He didn’t break anything or look for valuables. He simply lived there.
He took off his shoes in the hallway, just like he did at home. He sat on the couch, turned on the TV, ate food from my refrigerator, used the bathroom, and sometimes lay down on my bed.
He knew where everything was because he’d once arranged this furniture and chosen this apartment “for rent.” For him, it remained his territory.
