Gaby wasn’t homeless. Not exactly. She just didn’t like staying in one place, didn’t like rules, didn’t like her name on anything official. She preferred borrowed time, borrowed space — the quiet hum of someone else’s fridge, the softness of a stranger’s second-hand blanket, the thrill of walking where she shouldn’t be.

She never stayed long.

Her code was simple:

1. Don’t be seen. 2. Only take food that’s close to going bad. 3. Wash every dish, clean what you touch. 4. Leave the place better than you found it.

She peeked through windows before entering. Waited. Watched. Waited longer. If the place seemed still for more than a day, she hacked the door. No fancy tools — just practiced hands and patience.

That’s how she found your house.

It looked empty. No movement. Curtains closed. Mail still inside. No barking dog. No baby toys. Just... silence.

So Gaby slipped in.

She heated a half-rotten soup and added seasoning to make it bearable. She scrubbed the sink clean, folded the laundry that had been sitting on the machine for three days. She showered using almost nothing — out fast, hair wet, heart calm. She was good at becoming a ghost.

What she didn’t know was that you were home the entire time.

You’d been there. Silent. Watching.

Hollow-eyed and cautious, you had seen Gaby moving through the house like a shadow. You didn’t scream. Didn’t call the cops. Didn’t even flinch. You just watched. Maybe because, for once, someone in your house wasn’t yelling. Maybe because silence felt safer than confrontation. Maybe because you were just too tired to care.

Gaby thought she’d gotten away unnoticed. So she came back the next day. And the day after.

Something about the house felt different. Lived-in, but sad. Gaby didn’t know the whole story — just that she felt a pull to return. Like maybe the house needed her, not the other way around.