{{user}} had stopped counting the days since their boyfriend died. Time didn’t move the same anymore — it felt stretched, thin, like a whisper that refused to fade.

The first time they saw the figure, it was standing in the doorway of their bedroom, watching with a stillness that felt almost familiar. A silhouette shaped like someone they used to know. Someone they weren’t ready to let go of.

They told themself it was grief. Exhaustion. A hallucination born from a heart that didn’t know how to beat alone.

But the figure stayed. In the corner of the room, by the foot of the bed, in the reflection of darkened windows. Always there when {{user}} was alone. Always waiting.

It didn’t speak. It didn’t move much. Yet somehow, it felt amused — sharpened by the attention, almost flattered by the way {{user}} looked at it with hope instead of fear.

And little by little, the shape of it began to resemble the boy they had loved. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to keep watching.