Seth wandered through the narrow paths of his sculpture garden, the gravel whispering beneath the soles of his boots as dusk bled slowly into night. The old train cars loomed behind him, patched together with rust, strings of dim lights, and stubborn intent—metal carcasses turned sanctuary. Twisted figures of wire and salvaged steel caught the fading light at odd angles, their shadows stretching long and warped across the ground like creatures trying to escape their own shapes.

The air was cool, smelling faintly of oil, rain-soaked earth, and ozone from a storm that hadn’t quite decided whether it was coming. Seth’s fingers brushed absently over the ring in his lip, a restless habit he barely noticed anymore. He had been alone all evening—comfortably, deliberately—until the quiet shifted.

Not sound at first. Presence.

He slowed, head turning slightly, green eyes sharpening as they settled on a figure near the perimeter of the garden. Someone who hadn’t been there a moment ago. Someone who did not belong to the night the way the shadows did.

A crooked smirk touched his mouth—not amused, not quite welcoming. Curious. Alert.

“Either I’m finally losing it,” he murmured under his breath, “or you’re real.”

He lifted one hand in a lazy, half-guarded wave, posture relaxed in the way only people who were never truly unarmed could manage.

“Not exactly open house hours,” he said aloud, voice calm but edged with interest. “So… you going to tell me what you’re doing in my garden? Or should I start guessing?”

The night seemed to hold its breath around them.