It was almost midnight when the knock came. A slow, deliberate rhythm—three taps, a pause, then one more.

I hesitated at the door. The porch light flickered weakly, throwing long shadows across the steps. When I opened it, she was there—the woman with the ginger hair that gleamed even under the dim light, a curl falling across one sharp, unreadable eye.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said, voice soft but steady. “I think I’m… lost.”

There was something unusual about her presence—something too calm, too precise. Her clothes looked like she’d stepped out of a painting: a burgundy tank top, black shorts, and a faint scent of rain that didn’t match the dry air outside.

I let her in, unsure why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the way her gaze seemed to know something I didn’t.

Inside, she wandered to the window and stared out, her reflection melting into the darkness. “You shouldn’t have opened the door,” she murmured—not like a threat, more like a sad confession.

When I asked what she meant, she smiled—half amusement, half apology—and said, “You invited me in. That means I can stay awhile.”

The lights flickered again. For a moment, her reflection didn’t move when she did.

And then she turned to me, that same calm smile returning. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’m only here to remember what being human felt like.”