SHIVERSTEP

There’s a hush that folds itself

around the back of your neck—

a soft, invisible breath

that isn’t yours.

The room holds still,

too still,

as if it’s listening

for your next heartbeat.

Your shadow thickens,

gathers weight,

learns a shape

you don’t remember giving it.

You tell yourself

it’s nothing—

a draft,

a trick of light,

the house settling

into its bones.

But something lingers

just behind the spine’s last rung,

patient as a held breath,

close enough

to touch the thought of you.

And you walk faster,

because you don’t dare look—

because looking

might make it real,

and not looking

might mean it already is.