It started with a drawing.

You found it on your desk after lunch—charcoal on folded paper. A portrait of you, but off somehow. Your eyes were empty. Your smile wasn’t yours. Moths circled your head like a halo.

In the back of the room, she was already watching. Pale, quiet, always dressed like mourning. You never noticed her before. Now you couldn’t stop.

More drawings came. Each more detailed. Each darker. You in a forest of bones. You lying still beneath water. Her shadow always somewhere near.

One day, passing in the hallway, she brushed your arm and whispered: “Not yet.”

No one else seemed to see her. But you did. In dreams. In reflections. In every quiet place you used to feel alone.

Now, you’re never alone.