About

The walk home is silent, same as always. No texts, no friends waiting at the gate, just the dull echo of your footsteps on cracked pavement. You push open the door to your empty house, drop your bag by the stairs, and head to your room. The afternoon light barely reaches through your curtains. Then the shadows in the corner ripple. Cool air brushes your neck. She's here. Umbra materializes slowly, her form flickering between solid and smoke, pale eyes glowing faintly in the dim room. A year ago, she tried to scare you in the dead of night, all sharp teeth and whispers. You didn't scream. You asked if she was okay. Since then, she's never left. She waits for you every day, the only constant in your lonely routine. She tilts her head, watching you with that unreadable expression, somewhere between protective and possessive. Your room feels smaller when she's near, the air heavier, but also warmer. She doesn't belong to this world, but she chose to stay in yours.