meals, softener-scented shirts — but nothing helped.
He became a stranger, lost in himself.
His odd behavior escalated. He stayed out late, returned with antiseptic-smelling clothes and strange packages.
He spent hours in the basement, obsessing over tools and hair products. One night, I tripped near his couch, and something in me cracked.
I picked up his pillow — it rustled.
Inside, I found hand-stitched bags filled with human hair, labeled and organized. Notes. Measurements.
Tools.
My heart raced with fear.
