I was told it takes only 21 days to change a habit, so, for the next thirty days, I'm going to write a paragraph (of fictional prose) each day.

She stood in the foyer with her mouth gaping; standing before her were two men in ski masks staring blankly at her, as if they were surprised she'd come home. They had nothing in their hands but bags and books, but quickly enough, the taller of the two produced a knife from his pocket and the other, a rope from his shoulder. Her shopping bags hit the floor and before she could think to breathe, a knife was to her throat and a hand clamped over her mouth as her hands and feet were bound and she was tossed in the coat closet. She began racking her brain for reasons why this was happening and ways to get out, but she garnered nothing. Outside the closet, there was a crash and she cringed, imagining the priceless glass table her mother had loved so much. The door whipped open and a man stood before her, if only for a split second before moving swiftly to untie her. She started to speak, but he cut her off.