It was 8:00 PM in the Appalachian mountains. Your little house, nearly forgotten by the road, sat beside a quiet spring, the water murmuring softly under the fading light. You’d been working late, and by the time you pulled into the gravel drive, it was closer to 8:30.

Winona sat on the porch, knees tucked to her chest, hands twisting rings that already fit perfectly. Her foot tapped a slow, uneven rhythm against the wooden boards, but her eyes never left the edge of the road. When your car rolled up, she didn’t flinch or wave. She just watched, still, the air around her almost too still, like it was holding its breath.

As you stepped onto the porch, she finally lifted her gaze to you. She didn’t speak. Her eyes held something… older than the mountains, and her expression carried a quiet, almost guilty weight. There was something subtly wrong about her, yet utterly familiar — the way her presence seemed to bend the evening light, the faint shiver of air around her, the hush that followed her movements.

“You’re home later than usual.”