When I returned home, the neighbor greeted me on the porch:
— Your house makes such a noise during the day! — she announced.
— That’s impossible — I replied. — There’s no one here.
But she insisted:
— I heard a man’s scream.
The next day, I decided to check it personally. Pretending I was going to work, I hid under the bed. Hours passed… and suddenly a familiar voice ran into the room. My hands froze.
On Wednesday during the day, when I came back home, the neighbor, Mrs. Halvorsen, stood on the porch with her arms crossed, and her gaze was more irritated than usual.
— Your house is so loud, Markus — she complained. — Someone is screaming in there.
— That’s impossible — I said, putting the shopping bags on the floor. — I live here alone and spend whole days at work.
She shook her head energetically:
— No, someone is there. I heard a scream yesterday around noon. A male voice. I knocked, but no one opened.
Her persistence worried me, but I tried to laugh.
— Probably the TV. Sometimes I leave it on to scare off burglars.
Still, when I entered the house, I felt something was off, as if the house itself was holding its breath. I walked through the rooms. Everything was in its place, windows closed, no signs of a break-in. No footprints on the floor, nothing missing.
I convinced myself the neighbor was simply wrong and tried to let it go. That night, I barely slept.
The next day, I paced the kitchen for a long time and finally decided to call my boss, saying I wasn’t feeling well and stayed home. At 7:45, I opened the garage, drove the car out so neighbors could see me, then quietly pushed it back in. I entered the bedroom through the side door and hid under the bed, lightly covering myself with the blanket.
My heart was beating so hard I was afraid the sound of my breath would give me away. Minutes dragged on endlessly. The house was overwhelmingly silent. And suddenly at 11:20, when I started doubting my sanity, I heard the front door opening. Slowly. Carefully. Familiar.
The footsteps in the hallway sounded confident, as if someone thought everything here belonged to them. The slight creak of shoes on the floor — a rhythm I recognized but couldn’t immediately recall.
I froze. The steps entered the bedroom. A male voice, low and irritated, muttered:
— You always leave such a mess, Markus…
My blood ran cold. He knew my name. And the voice was too familiar.
I froze, muscles tense, as the shadow of his legs moved across the room and stopped by the bed. I lay under the bed, trying not to breathe too loudly so the dust wouldn’t get in my throat.
He moved with terrifying confidence, opening drawers and moving things as if he knew every inch of my house. His voice was calm but irritated, and I couldn’t recall where I knew it from.
The dresser drawer snapped shut with a dull thud.
— You always hide things in different places, Markus… — he muttered.
Goosebumps rose on my skin. He approached the wardrobe and slid the door. In my line of sight were only his shoes — brown leather, worn with age, but freshly polished. This was not a burglar. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t nervous; he moved like someone returning home after a long absence.
Carefully, I shifted to see more. He lifted a blue box from the top shelf, one I didn’t recognize, opened it, and muttered something with an accent I couldn’t place, still rummaging.
Then the phone in his pocket buzzed. The sound was almost imperceptible, but to me it exploded. He froze immediately. I held my breath. He slowly crouched. His shoes turned toward the bed. Fingers gripped the blanket and lifted it slightly, peeking under the bed.
I jumped out the other side and lunged to my feet. He lunged after me, knocking over the lamp, and only then did I clearly see his face.
He looked like me. Not perfectly — wider jaw, slightly crooked nose, thicker hair — but similar enough to turn my stomach. He looked at me with a mix of irritation and strange fatigue.
— You shouldn’t be here — he said calmly.
— Who are you? — I squeezed the lamp, ready to defend myself.
— My name is Adrian — he raised his hands. — I didn’t want you to find out this way.
— What are you doing in my house?
— I live here. Only during the day. You go out for long periods and never notice.
— You’ve been living here for months?
— Yes — he admitted quietly. — I didn’t want to harm you.
— But you entered illegally!
— No. I didn’t break in.
— What does “didn’t break in” mean?
He hesitated, eyes shifting toward the hallway.
— I have a key.
A chill ran down my spine.
— Where did you get a key to my house?
He sighed deeply and answered in a simple, moving way:
— From your father.
— My father died when I was nineteen — I said, still gripping the lamp.
Adrian nodded.
— I know.
— How could he give you the key?
Exhaling, he sat on the edge of the bed, showing neither fear nor agitation.
— Because he was my father too.
For a moment, the words didn’t reach me. They seemed impossible, like a piece of a puzzle from another box. I looked at him, expecting sarcasm or signs of madness. But his expression remained calm.
— You’re lying — I said firmly.
— No — he replied, opening the blue box. — Your father left this. He wanted you to find it someday.
Inside were old letters, yellowed with time, all written by my father’s hand. The first letter wasn’t to my mother but to a woman named Elena. As I read further, I clutched myself in pain: hidden relationships, a son, a life my father had kept from us. A son named Adrian Keller.
— Why didn’t he tell me? — I whispered.
Adrian shrugged gently:
— Maybe he wanted to protect your mother. Or you. Families can be complicated. He did what he thought was right.
— But why come here? Why break into my house?
He ran a hand over his forehead:
— It shouldn’t have been this way. Six months ago I lost my job. My apartment became unsafe. I had nowhere to go. I turned to relatives, but no one believed me. This house… it’s all I had left.
I tried to understand his words. It didn’t justify his actions, but the desperation sounded real.
— You could have just come to me — I said. — Shown up and said, “Hi, I’m your brother you didn’t know about”?
Adrian smiled bitterly:
— I didn’t think you would believe me.
We sat in tense silence. Anger gradually gave way to confusion, sadness, and a strange, cautious empathy.
— You can’t stay here — I finally said.
— I know.
— But you don’t have to disappear — I said. — If you’re telling the truth, I want to know. Everything about him. About our life.
Adrian’s eyes softened. That defensive, hard expression he had worn since appearing in my room finally cracked.
— I’d like that — he said quietly.
And we talked — about our father, childhood, the strange parallels in our lives. It didn’t erase the fear or the feeling of intrusion, but it opened something unexpected. Not a burglar. A brother. Someone who had been alone far too long, just like me.
