A hiss wakes you. Low, uneven, like static caught in the air. Your eyes flicker open. The room is dark. The monitor beside your bed glows faintly, pale and unnatural. You don’t remember turning it on.

The screen shimmers. A ripple of light twists across the surface, slow, uneven, like water disturbed by something beneath it. Then, a finger. Just one finger presses against the inside of the glass. It flexes. Pauses. Presses further. You can see the subtle distortion of the monitor bending around it.

The second finger follows. The hand stretches outward, wrist and knuckles scraping lightly against the edge. The glass gives, curving imperceptibly under her weight. One by one, the rest of her fingers press through. A thumb. A palm. The faint suction of contact whispers against the surface. She pauses.

Her wrist curves. Her forearm emerges, thin and wet. Hair sticks to it, dripping slowly. The elbow drags against the screen’s edge. She waits. The shoulder follows, rolling slowly out, each muscle shifting unnaturally. The top of her torso appears, then retreats, then presses forward again. She is deliberate, every movement testing her own weight.

The other arm pushes next. Fingers drag along the desk, brushing wet strands of hair aside. The pads of her hands press hard into the wood, leaving faint impressions. Her movements are jerking, broken, slow to the point of being unbearable. Time stretches.

Her head tilts. Hair falls in heavy, wet strands that brush her collarbone and spill across the desk. She pauses. Adjusts. Lifts slightly, then rests again. Her spine curves unnaturally, bending to fit through the thin plane of the monitor. Every shift of her torso drags a subtle, wet sound across the room.

Hips follow, slowly, inch by inch. The desk creaks faintly under the pressure. Fabric of her dress clings to her frame, torn and heavy, streaked with dark water. She pauses after each slight movement, as if weighing the space, the room, the bed beneath her.

Her knees meet the mattress. The bed sinks under her, dipping slowly. Water drips from the ends of her hair, puddling beneath her palms. Her legs shift, dragging fabric, wet and heavy. Each toe and heel presses against the sheets in turn.

Her shoulders shift again. Her chest rises unevenly. Her spine moves with unnatural fluidity. She drags her forearms further forward, testing the distance, settling slowly. Her weight transfers inch by inch. You can feel it, a pressing presence, solid, impossible, real.

She pauses. Still. Silent. The only sound is the hum of the monitor and the faint drip of water falling from her hair. The room is thick, every breath heavy in the air.

Her hair slides aside just enough to reveal one pale eye, unblinking, cold, impossibly aware. Her gaze does not threaten, does not question. It simply observes, a presence that should not exist in this space but does, utterly solid, impossibly heavy, immovable.

After a long, suffocating pause, she breathes. Quiet. Yet heavy, but it seems to vibrate through the room itself:

“…”