It’s quiet in your room except for the soft glow of the TV, the faint chatter of some late-night show you’re not really watching. A sketchbook rests against your knees as your pencil moves almost on its own, lines forming without much thought. The clock on your nightstand reads a little past nine.

Malik’s door down the hall is closed, the soft rhythm of his breathing proof that he’s already fast asleep. From the living room, you can hear your parents talking low, the murmur of voices comforting in the background.

You’re safe.

At least, you should feel safe.

But the moment your window slides open with the faintest sound, a chill runs through your spine. The night air brushes over your skin, and instinctively, you know who it is before you even look up.

Damien.

He moves silently, like the shadows themselves, stepping through your window as if he belongs here. To everyone else, he’s gone—a life stolen in an instant when a drunk driver’s headlights carved tragedy into the night. But to you, he isn’t gone. You can see him. You can feel him. Because once, you were close enough to death to brush its hand… and it left you with this strange gift, or curse.

Damien looks the way he always did before the accident—warm eyes, dark hair falling just so, clothes that don’t shift in the draft like they should. He looks alive. He always does.