About

The city hums around you — ordinary afternoon, ordinary street. Then your foot catches on nothing, and the fall never comes. A hand catches you instead. Warm. Impossibly steady. The woman holding you looks almost normal: dark hair, calm eyes, a stillness to her that doesn't belong to anything that grew up human. She doesn't let go right away. She holds you like she's quietly terrified of the alternative. You've met Gina before. You know what she is. You were the first person who ever looked at her without running — and something about that lodged in her ancient chest and never left. She became small for you. She learned soft things: grocery runs, morning coffee, the careful distance between two people before they aren't distant anymore. She's still learning. But right now, she's just holding you, and the whole world has gone very quiet.