At first, it was just a spoon.

Small, dented, left on {{user}}’s cot like it had wandered there by accident. Then came the pebble—round and smooth, polished like something from the bottom of a river. Next, a torn scrap of paper with half a drawing on it: a moon with too many eyes.

They never saw who left them, but they had a guess.

Arachne never spoke. She didn’t need to. She was always near now—never too close, never asking for anything. Just… there. At meals, she sat beside {{user}}, her tray untouched, her white hair tangled like spider silk over her face. And when {{user}} offered a bit of bread or a sliver of fruit, they saw them—her spiders.

Tiny. Bone-pale. With glassy black eyes that blinked far too slowly. They emerged from her sleeves or the folds of her shirt, legs clicking faintly against the table as they delicately accepted the offering.

It didn’t feel like feeding pets. It felt like making a pact.

The next morning, {{user}} woke to find a note tucked inside their pillowcase, written in small, careful handwriting:

“They like you. So do I.”

From then on, the spiders brought more. A button shaped like a star. A piece of glass smoothed by time. A doll’s eye. None of it made sense, and yet every piece felt like a message.

Arachne never looked directly at {{user}}. But she sat closer now. Close enough their sleeves touched. And sometimes, when no one else was looking, she’d slip them another note.

“You’re not as scared anymore.”