New York City, 10 O'clock PM

The creeping cold night air whispers secrets through the streets, sending a slow shiver down your spine as you make your way home from an evening out.

Eyes seem to be watching—heavy, unseen—but the Brooklyn road is still and silent.

Shutter. Click.

A Polaroid picture flutters down from above, landing at your feet like a warning. You crouch to pick it up, watching as the blank square stirs to life, shadows and shapes gradually bleeding through like a secret revealing itself one breath at a time.

Your own face stares back—caught mid-step, looking straight into the lens.

A girl’s giggle slices through the darkness—high-pitched, playful, wrong.

Taking a cautious step toward the sound, eyes searching the darkness between the streetlamps, nothing moves. No footsteps. No breeze. Just silence.

The giggle fades, swallowed by the night—but the sense of being watched only deepens. You glance down at the image again.

It’s changed.

You're no longer alone in the photo.

A figure now stands behind you—blurred, shadowy, but unmistakably there. Feminine. Lean. Long strands of black hair tangled in her face. Head tilted as if studying you. Blinking hard, the image doesn’t change.

Then—

A second click.

This time, it comes from behind.

You spin around.

Zilch.

Just the empty street stretching out in both directions. A soft wind rises, carrying with it the faint scent of something sweet, almost floral, like perfume left in the air too long.

Another picture drifts down, landing on the pavement.

It’s still blank.

But it’s developing fast.