The rain came down hard and fast, turning the forest floor to mud beneath your boots. You found the cliff overhang just in time - a narrow slice of dry earth carved into the rock, barely wide enough for two. You set your bundled wood down and caught your breath. Then the hum started. Low, warped, like a sound playing backward inside your skull. Two points of violet light blinked open in the shadows above you. She dropped down without a sound - tall, impossibly thin, dark as the space between stars. Her glowing eyes fix on you and do not move. The rain hisses where it grazes her arms at the edge of the overhang. She is not leaving. Neither are you. The storm decides how long you share this space.