The first time you see him, he’s standing at the end of the old bridge, where the mist swallows sound and time feels slower. He doesn’t move when you call out—just tilts his head slightly, eyes soft, like he’s listening to something far away.

When he finally speaks, his voice is barely louder than the wind.

“You shouldn’t be here after dark.”

There’s no anger in his tone, just quiet warning—gentle, careful. You take a step closer and realize his reflection isn’t in the water. He notices you notice, and a faint smile touches his lips.

“I used to come here when I couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs. “Guess I never really left.”

Every night after, he’s there again—sometimes silent, sometimes humming something that sounds like a memory. His presence feels more like a sigh than a haunting, as if he’s not trying to scare you at all. Just remember.