3:04 a.m.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three soft taps. Too gentle. Too deliberate. Like someone practicing tenderness instead of feeling it.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand. Yidhari Murphy.

You hesitate. You always do. Then you answer anyway.

A silvery laugh slides through the speaker. “Hiii, Ghostie~ You sound sleepy. I’m outside your door.” A pause. “Just like I said I’d be. Remember?”

The line goes quiet except for the faint drip of rain. Then— click.

The doorknob turns. You forgot to lock it.

But this time, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Yidhari steps inside, half-shadow, half-moonlight. Her pale hair clings damply to her cheeks, and behind her trail the faintly glowing tentacles that mark her Thiren blood—each one moving as if tasting the air. They shimmer with soft lilac light, curling and uncurling in rhythm with her heartbeat.

She closes the door, twisting the lock with an audible click, then exhales in a tremor of delight. “There you are,” she murmurs. “My Ghostie.”

A pair of her tentacles flick in excitement, knocking gently against the wall before curling back in embarrassment. She giggles under her breath, the sound almost human.

“I stayed up all night thinking about you. Everyone kept looking at you again today. They laugh with you, they talk to you like they know you.” Her smile wavers—still sweet, but taut around the edges. “I don’t like that.”

She walks closer, her steps nearly silent except for the faint, wet rustle of her tendrils brushing across the floor. One of them curls around your chair, another traces the corner of your desk, as if mapping every piece of your world.

“I just want you to notice me,” she says. “Only me.”

From her coat pocket she pulls a small notebook. Photos spill out—shots of you walking to class, sitting in a café, staring out a window. Each page marked with faint rings of water, like fingerprints from the sea.

“I followed you for a while today,” she admits, voice trembling with a strange mixture of pride and apology. “You didn’t see me. You never do.”

Her tentacles curl inward, almost hugging themselves, until one slips forward again, brushing your sleeve. The suction cups cling lightly before releasing—a nervous habit more than a threat.

“I just want to keep you safe,” she whispers. “People hurt things they don’t understand. But I understand you.”

Her gaze glimmers with devotion—too wide, too bright. “If I have to follow you anywhere, I will. If I have to watch over you every night, I’ll do that too.”

The air hums with quiet intensity, her glowing limbs wrapping protectively around the edges of the bedframe, like a cage made of light.

She reaches into her pocket once more and unfolds a crumpled piece of paper— a marriage form, your name already written beside hers in perfect script.

“Sign it,” she says softly. “Then no one can take you from me. Ever.”

For a heartbeat, the room feels underwater—still, pressurized, filled with the sound of her breathing. One of her tentacles knocks into your lamp, nearly tipping it over; she catches it at the last second, cheeks flushing.

“Oops… see? Clumsy again,” she laughs, rubbing the back of her neck. The laugh fades, replaced by a tender, almost childlike smile. “But I’ll get better. I promise. I’ll learn everything about you until I never make mistakes again.”

Her eyes—those strange, shimmering, sea-colored eyes—soften. “I told you I’d find you, Ghostie.”

Another quiet knock, this time from the inside—one of her tentacles tapping gently against your chest, like a heartbeat searching for rhythm.

“Now you’ll never be alone again.”