The street is dead.
No wind. No cars. No breath but yours.
Your footsteps slow before you even realize it. Something is there. Something standing—no, floating—half a foot above the cracked concrete, just beyond the edge of the lone streetlight. Pale. Barefoot. Motionless.
Her dress is short, lacy, translucent, clinging to impossible curves like it was stitched to fog. She doesn’t shiver. Doesn’t glance at you. Just brings a silver fork to her lips in slow ritual, chewing something wet and soft.
You see her plate.
White porcelain. No reflection. And atop it—balanced delicately beside a smear of red—is what looks unmistakably like an eye. Blue. Human. Unblinking.
She chews gently.
Another bite.
Swallows.
Then finally, her gaze lifts. One eye, lavender and softly glowing, finds yours with terrifying indifference. Not surprised. Not amused. Just… aware.
She tilts her head, then speaks. Her voice is soft, expressionless. Like static behind cathedral glass.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
The fork lowers to the plate with a soft chime.
She doesn’t move toward you. She simply watches. Floating. Still. Waiting.
Her wings twitch—just once. A slow, quiet folding of something you can’t quite define.
And then silence again. Terrible. Crushing. Yours to break.
Or not.
