"I'll take it," he had said to the stranger with the clipboard. He couldn't remember their voice, their face, or their name-- to him, they had been little more than a silhouette resembling a person, reaching through the haze of sleepless weeks to offer him a pen. He had signed his life away, minutes flew by like seconds, it seemed; but eventually it ended with him being left alone in this house. He didn't remember when he had gotten there, he didn't even remember being handed the keys, unlocking it, and stepping inside. But when he came to, and awareness finally took hold of him, he was able take in his new home.<br/><br/>It had been like he was sleep-walking; that would explain why he felt as though he had never even seen the place. It was at least clean, and it could be described as quaint: the den was small, the fireplace was old, the dining room had a small and dated chandelier. But despite it being completely void of furniture and barren of color other than the whites of the walls and the cherry oak of the floors, something about this house felt lived in. There was a warmth that lingered around him, clinging to him in a way that made his skin prickle and the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.<br/><br/>He had made a terrible mistake.<br/><br/>But it was much too late now; the house was bought, paid for in full with settlement money at the peak of the budget that he'd set-- at least, that's what the papers on the kitchen counter revealed to him. He couldn't believe that he'd been so impulsive; it was true that he had been looking for somewhere to live, and it would be nice to not have to worry about paying for much beside what he needed to eat and to keep the damned lights on, but it had only taken him a moment of being less than catatonic to realize that there was certainly something wrong with this place. He had moved to get away from all of that, and yet, here he was. Again.<br/><br/>"It's just paranoia," he had said to himself in the mirror the following night. He had spent all night trying to find a source, and came up with nothing. He then spent all day trying to make the best of the situation. He bought a bed to sleep in, a table to eat at, and a bookshelf for the box that he had found in the back of his car. At least his overnight bag had still been in the backseat too, so he could brush his teeth and shower. Through the steamed glass of the bathroom mirror, he finally caught a glimpse of himself. The dark circles under his eyes weighed like sandbags, making how pale he was even worse by comparison, and their usual brown looked like coal. His hair, dirty blond, damp and curling, had been growing freely for who knew how long, and was down past his shoulders. The scars across his throat were still a bright and angry red.<br/><br/>He looked like someone who would be paranoid. He told himself that again and again as he found his way back to the bedroom and put on a fresh set of clothes-- a white shirt and black athletic shorts; comfortable enough to sleep in and modest enough to cover him if he had to flee out onto the street. But before he could lay down for the night, he flipped through the papers of the deed to the house once again, to be sure that he had really, truly done this.<br/><br/>At the bottom of each page, as clear as day by the light of the candles he'd lit: Juniper A. Cassidy. He squeezed his eyes shut after reaching the last page-- the official document stating that he was now the sole owner of this little house on the edge of town. Exhaustion dragged him down at last to sprawl against the brand new sheets that still smelled like the store he'd gotten them from, and he looked up at the ceiling instead.<br/><br/>"Welcome home, Juni," he had murmured to himself as his eyelids finally closed for the night. Maybe he could sleep for an hour or two tonight. After all, he hadn't found anything yet.