Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

, stretching further than it should. I froze. And then I saw it: tiny handprints, pressed into the condensation on the window. Only… my windows don’t sweat. I packed a bag that night and left. When I came back to get my things in the daylight, everything was gone. My furniture, my clothes, even the photos I’d unpacked. Not stolen—vanished. The apartment was pristine, like no one had ever lived there. The real horror came when I got my first message on the apartment’s old voicemail system,