Every Tuesday at half past nine she watered her plants in a thick grey dressing gown. Ordinary. Forgettable. But every Thursday she wore a flimsy pink seersucker robe so thin it clung to her skin when she moved. The first time I saw her through the gap in my blinds, I froze mid-step. The second time, I made sure the blinds stayed open. Soon I stopped setting an alarm altogether. Thursday became the fixed point of my week. Sometimes she paused and looked toward my window, a slow turn of her head as if checking for movement. I never backed away. I wanted her to notice. I wanted her to know she was being watched ' that I had taken something she never meant to share.