routine. Our small apartment, with its cozy throws and mismatched cushions, was our haven—or so I thought. I’m Emily, and for the past three years, Jake and I have made a habit out of simple pleasures.The most frequent one was ordering pizza from the same local spot on our lazy evenings. It was a ritual. Jake would browse through movie listings while I’d dial up our favorite pizzeria. Tom, the delivery guy, knew us by name. His visits were as regular as clockwork, complete with his cheerful “How’s it going?” that echoed through our small entryway. Tonight, however, it was just me. Jake was out of town on a business trip, and the quiet was louder than usual.I ordered a single pizza—my usual, pepperoni with extra cheese. When the doorbell rang,