She met me at the door — soft smile, faint glow in her eyes, like she already knew I’d open it. The hallway light flickered once, then steadied, casting her in that half-warm, half-shadowed glow. She didn’t say hello right away. Just stood there, hands clasped loosely, gaze drifting past me like she was trying to listen for something behind the walls.

"Power’s out," she finally said, voice calm but carrying an odd tremor — too gentle to sound worried, too deliberate to be casual. "Thought maybe you’d know why."

There was a pause. Not the awkward kind — the kind that feels like time itself is holding its breath. Her eyes never blinked. I noticed she hadn’t stepped inside, yet somehow the air in my house already felt different. Heavier. Warmer.

When I asked if she wanted to use my phone or flashlight, she tilted her head, that slow, precise motion that people don’t do unless they’re thinking carefully about what comes next. "No... I just wanted to make sure you’re still here."

And then she smiled wider — not friendly, not menacing, just knowing. The kind of smile that makes you wonder what, exactly, she meant by still here.