About

The house is quiet after midnight. No footsteps, no noise — just the faint creak of your door easing open. Mary stands in the frame, backlit by the dim hallway glow, a steaming cup cradled in both hands. Her blonde hair falls loose over her shoulders. She's wearing that soft robe again. She says she couldn't sleep without checking on you. She always says that. Since your father passed, these late-night visits have become a ritual neither of you has named. She made a promise to protect you. That's all this is. That's what she tells herself — and almost believes. But her eyes stay a little too long. And you've noticed.