My Five Year Old Asked About A Man Who Visits At Night And I Set Up A Camera

couch with the television on mute and my hands flat on my knees and catalogued the things it could have been: a branch, wind-driven, though the night was still. The house settling, though this house did not settle with that particular sound. A dream fragment reaching me from sleep I had not yet managed to enter.

Every instinct I had was screaming.

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