I opened my husband’s safe that afternoon with only one goal in mind:
find the documents I needed for our divorce.

We had been drifting apart for years, and when I finally made the decision to leave, I thought the hardest part would be telling him.
I was wrong.

As soon as the lock clicked open, a stack of envelopes spilled out onto the floor. I expected old receipts, bank statements, maybe some forgotten papers.

What I didn’t expect—
was a thick packet labeled with my name.

My hands trembled as I opened it.

Inside was a bundle of photographs.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
They were grainy, dimly lit, taken from a high angle…
but then my stomach twisted violently.

They were photos of me.
Sleeping.
Not in a hotel.
Not while traveling.

But in my own bathroom.

Different nights.
Different months.
Different years.

My breath caught as I flipped through them—
the same tiled wall
the same shower curtain
the same faint crack in the ceiling.

Someone had been taking pictures of me in my safest, most private place… for years.

And they weren’t screenshots.
They weren’t accidental captures.
These were taken deliberately—
from a vantage point that made my skin crawl.

I felt cold.
Sick.
Like the room was tilting.

I needed answers.

When my husband returned home, I was waiting for him—photos spread across the kitchen table.

His face drained of color.

“H-how did you—”

“Why?” I demanded, my voice shaking. “Why would you take these?”

But then something in his expression shifted.
Not guilt.
Not fear.

Confusion.

“I didn’t take those,” he whispered.

I stared at him, my pulse hammering in my ears. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I swear,” he said, stepping back, hands trembling, “I’ve never seen these before. But I know where they were taken.”

My heart stopped.

He pointed to the upper corners of the photos—
tiny shadows I had missed.

“That angle… it’s only possible from one place,” he said quietly.

I swallowed. “Where?”

His answer made my blood run cold.

“The attic.”

I stared at him.

“We don’t have an attic,” I said.

He shook his head slowly.

“Yes, we do,” he whispered. “It was sealed before we moved in. I thought it was empty. But whoever lived here before us… someone must have opened it.”

A chill crept up my spine.

The previous owner.
The man who had lived alone.
The one the neighbors said “kept to himself.”
The one who had “left suddenly.”
And the one we later learned had died in prison.

I felt my knees weaken.

“But why are the photos here?” I forced out.

My husband swallowed hard.
“Because a month ago… someone mailed them to me.”

The room spun.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered.

“Because the note said that if I told you, they’d send more. Worse ones. I—I was trying to protect you.”

He handed me a crumpled envelope.

Inside was a single line:

“You never knew who watched you first.”

My legs buckled as the horrible truth settled in.

The photos weren’t about my husband.
They weren’t about our marriage.

They were about someone else watching me long before he ever suspected a thing.

Someone who had lived in our house.
Above our bathroom.
Above me.

Watching.

Recording.

Collecting.

And now—
after all these years—
someone wanted us to know.