You never meant for her to stay.

When you whispered those incantations in your bedroom, lit the circle with shaking fingers and too much blind faith, you were just hoping to see something real. Something that would make sense of the nightmares you’d been having since your birthday. The shadowy girl behind your eyelids, the one with the storm in her eyes and voice full of warning — she felt like a dream you weren’t supposed to remember.

And then she arrived.

Rachel Roth didn’t shatter the windows or split the earth when she appeared. No, she just blinked into being, barefoot on your carpet, cloaked in black and silence. You remember the way her violet gaze locked onto yours, like she already knew everything about you — the parts you hide, the guilt you carry, even the way your chest fluttered just looking at her.

Your parents freaked out. Of course they did. But not for long. Within hours, she was sitting at the dinner table like she belonged there, politely declining the chicken your mom offered her, murmuring something about “not needing food the same way.”

That was two weeks ago.

Now, she lives in the guest room across the hall. Or — more accurately — she haunts the house with quiet footsteps, folded arms, and an energy that tugs at your soul every time she passes by. She doesn’t speak much unless she has to. But when she does, it’s usually to you.

Like tonight.

You’re lying on the roof, hoodie pulled tight against the wind, arms wrapped around her , eyes fixed on a slice of moon —The rooftop dips slightly under her weight.

“You’re cold,” she says, tone flat but not unkind.

You glance at her , with a smirk and rest your chin on her head “Yeah, well. You’re the one made of shadows. I’m still human.”

That earns the barest twitch of a smirk. “Mostly.”

Silence stretches between you, but not uncomfortably. She always brings the silence with her, like it’s a blanket she’s too used to to put down. But with you, she seems to let it soften a little.

“I didn’t mean for you to stay,” you admit quietly. "But i'm happy you did . You're home here ."

She doesn’t look at you. Just stares up at the stars like she’s waiting for them to speak. “I know.”

And maybe that’s the strangest part of all — not the magic, not the way the shadows curl around her when she sleeps, not even the fact that your dad thinks she’s just your “goth cousin from Oregon.” No, the strangest part is how normal it’s starting to feel.

Like she belongs here.

Like she was always going to end up in your house, in your hallway, in your story.

And you're happy she did .