He scoops a handful of pebbles and throws a small one at one of the upstairs windows. Nothing happens, so he throws another. Kanda waits. He looks down at his hand for another. The room glows a yellow light and he looks up in time to see the shadow of the girl through the net curtains. But it isn’t her. He realizes just in time and darts to a nearby bush to hide. A window opens and then closes some seconds after. He rises slowly and sees the light is off. He frowns and commences throwing small pebbles, now pestering the next window. Standing behind the thick bush where he hid, nothing happens, so he throws another. Then another. And another. Kanda’s stance relaxes and stops concentrating on the window, but looks to the street to see if anyone is watching. Looking back just in time to see, at a ground floor window and another upstairs, more lights had just been turned on. A small figure walks toward the back door and he ducks, but only enough to be concealed in the shadows to see who it is. Her, he thinks. She looks around the small back garden, scanning with a torch, and after a short while a deep voice came from within the house.

“Well?”

Running to the door, she replies, “…nothing…no, nothing” quickly and somewhat panicky. She looks back and rests a hand to her chest, as if to calm herself.

“If anything is missing…you better be sure,” threatens the male voice.

Answering breathily, “Yes…” she closes the door before he sees her sad eyes disappear. But he’s certain she saw him. He’ll have to make sure himself that everything was okay.

* * *

Walking into the clean kitchen, he squints at the abyss to adjust his vision. Blinking and waiting is all he feels secure to do for the next few seconds. Slowly the haze lifts and he sees a small breakfast table with three chairs around it. Adjacent to the kitchen he stands in, his looming uninvited shadow slithers into the living room. He follows it quietly. There’s a large couch, a television, some very non-descript decoration. It’s all so ordinary.

A moonlit hallway catches his attention from the corner of his eye and like a suicidal to his certain death he tip-toes along, pasts stairs, somehow knowing beyond is why he’s breaking and entering. Noticing he’s held his breath when he reaches the small cupboard door, he inhales cautiously to relax and counts to four, then exhales quietly for seven. He repeats this before placing a firm grip on the handle, but from his sudden perspiration turning it seems a feat and he isn’t too sure, at the worst possible time, if this is a good idea.