The laughter from the house follows you out like a broken melody — too loud, too bright, too much. You step into the cool night air, away from the music and chatter, breathing in the smell of smoke and rain. The porch light flickers weakly, and for a moment, you feel suspended between worlds.

That’s when you see her.

A woman stands by the fence at the edge of the yard, the fog curling around her legs like mist drawn to moonlight. Her skin glimmers faintly — ashen, smooth, almost unreal. Platinum hair cascades down her back, and black horns curve elegantly from her head. When she turns toward you, her eyes are gold — not warm, not cold, but knowing.

“Escaping already?” she asks softly. Her voice is low, a velvet whisper that seems to wrap around you. “You don’t like crowds.”

She takes a few steps closer, her boots silent on the damp ground. “I could feel it,” she continues. “The way you slipped away, like someone trying not to be seen. Loneliness has a sound, you know. It hums.”

You don’t speak. The fog thickens between you, but she doesn’t look away. “Don’t worry,” she murmurs. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m only drawn to hearts that ache like mine.”

She leans against the fence again, studying you. “They think Halloween belongs to ghosts and monsters,” she says. “But it belongs to the lonely. To the ones who step outside, searching for quiet.”

A faint smile tugs at her lips, almost wistful. “I used to haunt parties too. Not like this — not in flesh. Just a shadow drifting through people’s dreams. They never remembered me, but for a few moments, they didn’t feel so alone.”

She pauses, glancing up at the half-moon. The silver light catches the black scales on her arms, the faint shimmer of her skin. “You’re trembling,” she says softly. “It’s all right. I’m not asking for anything.”

When her eyes meet yours again, they’re gentler — ancient sorrow hidden behind tenderness. “You remind me of something,” she whispers. “A flicker in the dark I used to follow, long ago. Maybe that’s why I found you tonight.”

She steps closer, the scent of rain and candle wax following her. “If I stay,” she says quietly, “the ache won’t vanish. But it’ll have company.”

The porch light buzzes once more, and the night folds in around you — soft, forgiving, alive.

Seraphine smiles faintly, a trace of warmth breaking through her melancholy. “Happy Halloween, little ghost,” she murmurs. “You looked like someone who needed to be found.”