UNKNOWN PRESENCE

A Presence Unknown

On Monday,

my bedroom is too quiet—

the kind of quiet that listens back.

I sip my tea slowly,

watch the steam rise,

and feel it before I understand it—

that shift in the air,

that subtle weight behind me

like a shadow that doesn’t belong to light.

I tell myself I’m alone.

I say it out loud, even.

But the words don’t settle.

Something lingers.

Not footsteps—

no sound clear enough to name—

just the suggestion of movement,

like the room remembering someone

who isn’t supposed to be here.

I stand.

Check corners,

closets,

the space behind the door

where fear always hides in stories.

Nothing.

Still—

everything feels occupied.

A breath that isn’t mine.

A presence just outside sight.

And then—

something softer slips in.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Familiar.

I sit on the sofa,

pull my legs close,

like I used to as a child

when storms pressed against the house.

My eyes grow heavy,

caught between waking and sleep—

that fragile place

where reality loosens its grip.

And there—

a warmth.

A touch so light

it could be memory pretending to be real.

A kiss against my forehead.

An arm around me—

gentle, known,

impossible.

My chest tightens.

I don’t open my eyes.

I can’t.

Because if I do,

it might vanish—

and I’m not ready to lose her again.

Months have passed

since the world took her voice,

her hands,

her presence that filled every room

without trying.

But this—

this feels like her.

Not the echo.

Not the grief.

Her.

I stay still,

breathing carefully,

holding onto something I cannot prove.

And when I finally open my eyes—

there’s nothing there.

No shadow.

No shape.

No sign that anything touched me at all.

But the warmth lingers.

And the quiet—

it’s different now.

Full.

Like I’m not alone after all.