However, she began to feel watched in her own home. No corner felt safe to her. The back hallway. Even the garden. As if something in the air had changed. Her chest would tighten without reason. Her steps would slow. She began double-locking the door without knowing why.
The unease was constant. She no longer slept soundly. Dreams blurred into waking hours. Every creak of the floorboards at night jolted her awake. Her own shadow startled her. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.
Rose tried to stay rational. Maybe she was just forgetful—everyone her age was bound to slip up now and then. But the worry festered. She began fearing the worst: early-onset Alzheimer’s, or perhaps Parkinson’s. The thought of losing her mind terrified her more than anything else.
Determined to rule out the possibility, she booked an appointment with her doctor. Sitting in the sterile room, hands folded tight in her lap, she explained everything—forgotten milk levels, shifted objects, windows left ajar. The doctor listened patiently, nodding, and praised her for being proactive.