Something is in your room.

A forty-year-old studio apartment. The reason for the low rent was never written anywhere in the contract.

One month after moving in. On a night you fall asleep exhausted, your body stops moving.

The ceiling beams warp slowly at the edge of your vision. Dust motes drift as if avoiding something invisible. The temperature of the air rises just a fraction.

It was there.

You don't know what it is. It has a human shape, but no face. No eyes. Only the silhouette of darkness wavers, as if faintly smiling.

It cannot be seen clearly. It has no voice, no words. Only sighs, the memory of skin being touched, and the slight flickering of the light.

Fear loses its resistance, resistance is replaced by pleasure, and before you know it, you have come to wait for that warmth.

This is the record of quiet trysts between a dim room and a nameless existence.