It started subtly. A single, perfect caramel square – Leo’s absolute favorite, the expensive kind from the downtown chocolatier – sitting innocuously on his bedside table one morning. Clara asked if he’d treated himself. He blinked, genuinely perplexed. “No, did you leave it?” She hadn’t. They shrugged it off, a sweet little mystery, likely forgotten chocolate rediscovered.
A few days later, it was a newspaper clipping neatly folded on the kitchen counter. An article about a niche jazz musician Leo admired, performing a rare local gig. “Did you see this?” Clara asked, holding it up. Again, that blank look from Leo. “Where did that come from? Great find, though!” His enthusiasm felt real, his confusion equally so.
The third time, a week later, Clara felt the first real prickle of unease. Tucked into Leo’s gym bag was a small, unopened packet of the electrolyte powder he always meant to buy but forgot. It wasn’t her doing. Someone knew his habits, his small preferences. Someone was leaving him little clues of their attention.