Neighbors were already gathering, phones out, asking if she was okay. Sarah looked back. The house looked perfect again—fresh paint, curtains fluttering innocently. Sirens in the distance. She started laughing, then crying, then both. A paramedic wrapped her hand. “What happened in there, ma’am?” She opened her mouth to tell them everything. And felt something shift under the bandage. The cut had stopped bleeding. Instead, five tiny perfect stitches of red ribbon had sewn the wound shut from the inside. On the inside of the bandage, written in her own blood: SEE YOU AT THE HOUSEWARMING PARTY. The house windows blinked, just once. Every neighbor’s phone buzzed at the same moment with a new listing alert: 1892 Victorian, move-in ready, price slashed.
