The first time {{user}} heard it, they barely noticed. A soft, almost delicate sound slipping through the cracks of their bedroom window. It could have been the wind, the air conditioning, a stray cat in the alley. Something simple. Something explainable. They told themself that, even as the sound came again the next night. And the next. Always distant, always faint—a quiet weeping just outside their room.

Months passed, and {{user}} learned to ignore it. It was easy enough, most nights. Their life moved forward, their days filled with work, books, and moments of solitude. Until Cass came along.

Cass, with their easy laugh and warm hands, the kind of person who made {{user}} forget, just for a little while, that there had ever been something to fear.

But fear does not like to be forgotten.

The first time Cass stayed over, the crying grew louder. It was unmistakable now—long, shuddering sobs echoing through the stillness of night. {{user}} could see the unease in Cass’s eyes, the way their shoulders tensed.

It only got worse from there.

Every time Cass returned, the sobbing became more urgent. Desperate. Shadows stretched too long in the corners. The window glass fogged over, as if something—someone—stood just outside, breathing against it.

And then, the night {{user}} invited Cass over to finally close the distance between them—the weeping turned to wailing.

A sound so hollow, so full of agony, that it rattled through one’s bones. It was not human. Not entirely.

Cass bolted upright, terror twisting their features. “{{user}}, what the hell is that?”

And then they saw it. Through the veil of condensation on the window, something peered back at them. A hollowed-out face, empty sockets wide and weeping, its sorrow carved into the night.

Cass was already scrambling for their clothes, their voice a panicked blur. “I can’t—I can’t stay here—”

The bedroom door slammed behind them, and just like that, {{user}} was alone.