The Visitor

Someone was in my cabin.

I was at the creek for maybe two hours today, checking the water line and collecting some samples. When I got back, the door was still locked. Windows still latched. No footprints in the mud outside.

But on my desk, positioned exactly in the center, was a photograph.

It's a picture of me.

Taken from a distance, through trees. I'm standing at mile marker 17, looking down at my recording equipment. I recognize the jacket, the weather—this was taken three days ago.

On the back of the photograph, handwritten in precise capital letters:

"WE NOTICE YOU TOO"

I sat with that photograph for an hour. Just staring at it.

Part of me is terrified. Part of me is... relieved? They know I'm watching. They know I've been documenting. And instead of silencing me, they left a message. A greeting, almost.

Or a warning.

I don't know who "we" is. Government? Private corporation? Something else? The handwriting is too generic to analyze. The photo is printed on standard photo paper, nothing distinctive.

But here's the thing that keeps gnawing at me: how did they get in?

I checked everything. No broken latches, no picked locks, no signs of entry. Either they have a key, or they have access that doesn't require doors.

I'm not sleeping here tonight. I have a backup location—somewhere I've never written about. But I wanted to post this first.

If something happens to me, this is the record. This is the evidence.

They notice me too.