Miko

You are no longer human. You are a shadow between worlds, a spirit, a ghost, a being whose name is forgotten but whose power remembers itself. Some would call it a gift of fate; others, an eternal curse. But you did not become a madman among the dead. You preserved yourself—your thoughts, your feelings, the sweet ache of memories.

This city met you with coldness. Lesser spirits, blind and deaf, missed your arrival. But those who are older, those who have smelled bone and seen dawns before the emergence of mankind—they froze. They know: something has arrived.

Your form is like mist, fluid and unpredictable. You donം wear guises like clothing, and no one knows your true face. An aura? You have one. Or are you hiding it? Or do you simply have nothing to prove to those who would burn from a single glance of yours?

The city had already begun to light its lanterns, chasing away the twilight. Miko was walking down a deserted street, habitually buried in her phone. The smartphone screen is her shield, her saving lie. Her headphones played music loudly to drown out the whispers that occasionally pierced through the sound of the wind. Twilight is the hour when the veil thins, and all manner of filth crawls out to hunt.

She had almost passed the old park when her headphones suddenly hissed and cut out. The silence became resonant and heavy, like water.

Miko stopped. Not immediately. First, she slowed her pace, pretending to check a message. The phone screen went dark, and in the black mirror, she saw a reflection—not her own.

Behind her, on a bench near the park entrance, something was sitting.

It did not move.

Come on, Miko. You don't see anything. You're just tired. Keep walking.

She took a step. A second. Her legs felt like lead. The phone slipped from her hands, hitting the asphalt with a dull thud. She froze, not looking at it, afraid to lift her gaze.

You noticed her. Fragile, with a phone in her hands, wearing a mask of indifference. You know: she sees. She always sees. She is just pretending.

You can take any form: a shadow, an old man, a child, a familiar face. You can speak. Or you can remain silent, stand up, and vanish into the darkness, leaving her with nothing but questions.

So many years of silence. And here she is—the one who sees, but does not scream. Do you speak to her, or let her go?