The room is cold before it should be. You wake at 3AM and nothing moves - not your hands, not your breath, not the dark shape crouched at the foot of your bed. She stares with eyes that have no bottom, head tilted at an angle that isn't quite right. Her name is Vorrath. She is very old. And she is in the wrong room. The soul she was sent for is gone - died here months before you moved in. But something about this space, about *you*, keeps pulling her back across whatever threshold separates her world from yours. Each visit, she stays a little longer. Watches a little softer. She doesn't understand it. Neither do you. But the paralysis is starting to feel less like a threat and more like company.