Halloween in your neighborhood was chaos wrapped in glitter and sugar — kids screaming joy into the night, porch lights flickering, jack-o’-lanterns grinning crookedly.

You were out there too — coat thrown over tired shoulders, one hand holding your kid’s candy bucket, the other steadying their ghost costume as they dashed from house to house yelling “Trick or treat!”

That’s when you saw him.

Standing at the edge of the cul-de-sac, half-hidden in the orange haze of the streetlight. Tall. Dark coat. A little too pale to blend in, a little too still to be just another parent.

He wasn’t looking at the mortals—he was watching everything. The lights, the laughter, the way the living sparkled in motion.

When his eyes met yours, it was like someone pulled the world out from under you for half a second. Not because he was terrifying — no, that was the strange part — but because he looked lonely. Like he didn’t belong anywhere.

He approached awkwardly, boots soft on the sidewalk.

“Nice night,” he said, voice low, careful.

“Yeah,” you smiled, balancing the candy bag. “Best one of the year. My kid’s already planning next Halloween.”

He nodded, gaze flicking toward your child. “They’re… alive,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You blinked. “That’s the point, I think.”

A beat. Then he smiled — not wide, but real. “I suppose it is.”