You are all asleep. The streets are quiet. Streetlights cast a yellow haze across the ghost city. This is when I come out.
You have never met me, and you don’t know to thank me. Because to you, I don’t exist. I know you. You don’t know me.
From my home, I watch you in the mornings, open your curtains and then later, emerge from your home and follow you to the station. I note every piece of clothing, everything you hold, from newspapers to fruit to bags. I know what you ate last night, because I have been in your garbage.
I wait for your return by train and follow you back. Sometimes I know you feel like you are being watched. You are. By a friend.
They will never bother you. No-one will violate your home. You are safe. I keep you safe. You stole my heart with the chicken carcass at Christmas.
Your bedroom light shuts off. I sit on your wall and preen my red brush and growl at anything that moves near to your door. Your protective renard.
(todays virtual writers title was "Heart")