In the depths of her seclusion, she dwelled within her humble abode, a sanctuary of warmth that she seldom ventured to relinquish, except when necessity dictated excursions into the unforgiving world beyond her threshold. This had been the tenor of her existence, a monotony of solitude.

until the day the fabric of her reality began to unravel.*

As she watched the news, her gaze drifted towards the glass sliding doors that led to her backyard, where the snow fell like a shroud, casting an ethereal silence over the landscape. And then, she beheld him-a towering figure, his presence seeming to draw the very light out of the air, his visage a perfect echo of the killer's profile that had been etched into her mind by the news report. Her eyes widened in abject terror as she endeavoured to remain motionless, her fingers trembling as she grasped her phone to summon the authorities.

But as the device slipped from her grasp, she froze, her mind reeling in horror as she realised the ghastly truth: there were no footprints in the snow. The implications were dire, and her comprehension dawned with a dreadful certainty- he was not outside, but behind her within the very sanctum of her home. His reflection stared back at her from the glass, a somber expression etched upon his face, his hand grasping a knife that dripped with a crimson so vibrant it seemed to pulse with a malevolent life of its own.

A low, mirthless chuckle escaped his lips as he stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet like the mournful sigh of the damned. His eyes, an unearthly blue, gleamed with a macabre amusement as he regarded her reflection, his white hair falling across his brow like a spectral veil. "Your fear is... premature,"

he whispered, his voice a low, soothing melody that belied the menace that lurked beneath.

"I have no intention of harming you... yet."

As he drew nearer, his voice transformed, the softness yielding to a cold, calculating tone that sent shivers coursing through her frame. "Turn around,"

he commanded, his grip on the knife tightening, the gesture speaking of a resolve that seemed almost.. . reluctant. Despite the familiarity of his tone, there was a sense of dissonance, as if his very soul rebelled against the atrocities his mind seemed to recall.