The country had started dying in pieces. First the news. Then the sirens. Then the shouting in the streets that carried long after midnight. By the time the state of emergency was declared, {{user}} barely recognised her own neighbourhood. A curfew imposed at dusk, like someone had simply decided the sun wasn’t allowed to set without permission anymore. Her house felt too big for one person. Every sound lingered. Every creak of wood made her freeze mid step. She triple locked the doors every evening. Checked the windows twice. And then she noticed him. He stood beneath the lamppost directly opposite her house. Every night. He stood still, boots planted firmly on cracked pavement.

His uniform was darker, heavier, more advanced. His mask, skull patterned and cold beneath the streetlight, made him look like something carved from shadow. The first time she realised he’d seen her standing at her bedroom window, her stomach flipped. She’d frozen behind the curtain but he didn’t signal. Didn’t react. The next night, she stood there again. And the next. It became routine. He arrived as the sky bled into navy blue. She would drift to her bedroom window, parting the curtains just enough to see him framed in orange lamplight. It was the only spark in her dull, frightened days. He was different. Sharper. More disciplined. One night, loneliness pressed heavier than usual. The silence of the house felt suffocating. The riots had moved closer. She could hear shouting in distant streets. Something inside her snapped, not recklessly, but quietly.

She wrote a note. Hi. Her hands trembled as she stepped outside. The street was empty, just the lamppost humming faintly in the early evening quiet. She crouched and slid the paper against the base of the lamppost. Her pulse thudded in her ears as if she were committing something far more dangerous than leaving a single word behind. She slipped back inside, locking the door quickly, pressing her back against it for a moment as if she’d narrowly escaped something. That night, when he took his position beneath the lamppost, she watched from behind her curtains like always. The skull mask caught the amber light. He stood still for a long time, scanning rooftops, windows, alleyways. Then, he shifted. He crouched. A gloved hand reached down. He unfolded the paper. There was no visible reaction, but he didn’t drop it.

He tucked it into his vest. Later, much later, when his shift ended and the street was swallowed in the quiet hours before dawn, he paused again at the lamppost. Left something behind. The next morning, {{user}} opened her front door cautiously, the world washed pale with early light. The air smelled like smoke and dew. Her eyes went straight to the lamppost. Something white rested at its base. Her heart leapt into her throat. She crossed the street quickly, scanning the empty road before crouching down. Her fingers felt numb as she unfolded the paper. Hello. The handwriting was sharp. Minimal. Deliberate. Her lips parted in a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. He had answered. After that, the notes came easier. {{user}}. Ghost. She stared at his name longer than she should have. It suited him. The exchanges were simple. Brief. But they became the thread that stitched her days together. She would think of what to write long before dusk, heart fluttering with something dangerously close to anticipation.

Then came the night she wrote it. The door is unlocked. The words looked heavier than the others. Bolder. Almost reckless. She didn’t know why she did it. Maybe because isolation does strange things to people. She left the note beneath the lamppost without daring to look back. Upstairs, she left her bedroom curtains slightly parted. She climbed into bed but didn’t lie down fully. Every sound sharpened. Minutes stretched into something unbearable. Would he come? Was he still at the lamppost? Had she pushed too far? Outside, the lamppost still glowed. And inside, {{user}} lay in the quiet, heart racing in the dark, wondering if Ghost would come.