In a small upstairs room, Shyla sat with the locket hot in her palm. The house smelled like lunch. Outside, life moved ordinary. Inside, two worlds had started turning.
Her phone buzzed — Nora: Mom says lunch. Come down pls. Shyla breathed, shoved the locket back into her shirt, and stood. Her feet felt leaden. The house smelled of cooking; life was ordinary, stupidly ordinary, and that made the news from the shadows worse.
She walked downstairs with a quiet in her chest. At the table, Lily smiled without knowing the night that had just been set in motion. Shyla forced a smile back. The locket thudded once under her ribs, warning or promise — she couldn't tell which.
"Dear we will leave 7 in morning get ready on time, so do sleep early," lily sweetly said to them.
Shyla poked at her food, nodding at her mom's words, but barely hearing them.
"Seven sharp, Shy," Lily reminded, softer this time.
"Yeah, Mom," Shyla said, though her throat was tight.
Nora bounced in her chair, already planning how she'd decorate her new room in New York. Her chatter filled the table, but Shyla's thoughts were far away. Each laugh, each plan about "tomorrow," pressed on her like a weight.
She looked at the walls. Every corner of this house still carried her father's memory. His jacket hanging by the stairs. The garden he used to water. The study desk no one touched.
And now… gone. She was supposed to pack up and just leave everything.
The locket burned warm against her chest, as if reminding her: you're not just leaving a house, you're stepping straight into something else.
Shyla gripped her fork tighter, forcing herself to chew and swallow. Ordinary, she thought. Just stay ordinary a little longer. But her pulse didn't listen.
At night, the house was quiet but not still. Shyla lay awake staring at the ceiling; suitcase zipped at the foot of her bed. Nora was already asleep in the next room; she could hear the faint rhythm of her breathing through the wall.
Shyla turned onto her side. The locket pressed cold against her collarbone now, no longer burning, but alive in another way — like it was waiting.
She slipped it out, holding it in her palm. It gleamed faintly, though the curtains were drawn. She knew there was no moonlight. A breath stirred the air. Not hers.
Her heart thudded. She sat up, scanning the shadows of her room. The desk, the chair, the half-open wardrobe. Nothing moved. Yet the sense was there — someone else in the room.
"Not afraid?" a voice whispered, close enough that her skin prickled.
Shyla froze. The locket pulsed once, and she thought of the stranger from the library. Her hand tightened. "Who's there?" she whispered back, though her voice cracked.
Silence. The house seemed to hold its breath. Then she could sense someone pinning her down as if ready to devour her. "Wait for me, shy... please" the man requested. Though she cannot see his face as he was wearing mask, but his pitch-black eyes were in dilemma as if fighting to not do something.
Her breath caught. The voice didn't sound like the monster she imagined; it sounded almost… pleading. "Wait for me, Shy… please." The words wrapped around her in the dark, soft and broken.
She wanted to scream. To run. But she couldn't. Because when she looked up, there he was — a figure half-drowned in shadow, face hidden beneath a mask, eyes black as midnight and storming with something she didn't understand.
Not hunger alone. Not rage. Something like war inside him.
Her chest tightened. The locket flared between her fingers, searing and cold at once as if dead.
"Who are you?" she managed, voice trembling.
The man didn't move closer. Didn't move at all. Only those eyes flickered as if he was fighting himself, and every second near her cost him.
For a moment she thought he'd reach for her. But instead, he staggered back a step, breath ragged, as if retreat was the only way to keep from breaking. The shadows swallowed him.
Shyla sat frozen on her bed, chest rising too fast, this time the locket burning alive against her palm. Its warmth pulsed steady, almost like a heartbeat that wasn't hers.
Her throat tightened. She clutched it harder. "Leo…" Her voice cracked, more demand than plea. "Who was he? Tell me. Who?"
The locket trembled faintly in her hand. A whisper curled through her mind.
Who…? Leo's tone was ragged, uncertain. Almost… confused.
Shyla's breath hitched. Her blood went cold. Because if Leo didn't know… then what had just stood in her room?
"No one was here, Master," Leo's words dropped like a bomb.
"But… but—he said wait for me. You didn't see him? You were in my hand, Leo." Shyla's voice trembled, desperate to believe Leo wasn't teasing her.
"Master, no one was here. If even a shadow came near you, I'd feel it—the same way I felt the one in the library," Leo said, almost proud.
Shyla shook her head. "But this wasn't the library one. I could… I don't know how to say it, but I could feel something else."
"Maybe you're tired. Or it's the move tomorrow," Leo cut her off, his tone dismissive. "You're imagining things. Sleep, Master."
Shyla wanted to argue, to tell Leo he was wrong. But her chest ached, her throat too tight. Maybe… maybe he was right. Maybe it was just her mind.
She lay back down, the locket pressed into her palm. Its heat had faded to a faint thrum, like a heartbeat drifting further away.
The room was still. Too still. She kept her eyes on the ceiling until they blurred, until sleep finally dragged her under.