Elara had always known she was different.

It started when she was five. While other children played with dolls and blocks, she would sit in a corner of the room, staring at the air with an expression of curiosity and caution. At first, her parents thought she was simply imaginative, creating invisible friends to keep her company. But then, she started describing things—things no child should know.

"There's a man in the hallway," she said one night, pointing past her mother.

Her mother turned, seeing nothing. "There's no one there, sweetheart."

"But he's looking at you," Elara insisted. "He's wearing a hat, and his face is blurry. He says you can't see him, but I can."

Her mother's face paled. There had been no one else in the house.

At first, they thought it was a phase. Children had wild imaginations, after all. But as Elara grew, so did the intensity of her visions. It wasn't just glimpses of shadowy figures anymore. She could hear them whispering, feel their presence in the room with her. And no matter how much she tried to ignore them, they were always there, watching, waiting.

Her grandmother, the only one who believed her, sat her down one day when she was ten.

"You have a gift, child," the old woman had said, her wrinkled hands gripping Elara's tightly. "A gift that runs in our blood. But you must be careful. Never talk to them. Never invite them in."

Elara had nodded, though she didn't quite understand. At the time, she thought her grandmother was being dramatic. But as she got older, she realized the truth—this wasn't a gift. It was a curse.

By the time she was sixteen, the shadows were a part of her life. She had learned to live with them, pretending not to see them even when they hovered just beyond her vision. Most of them never moved, never interacted—just stood there, like forgotten echoes of something long past. But then, one night, something changed.

It started with a whisper.

"Elara…"

She sat up in bed, her breath caught in her throat. It was different this time—usually, the whispers were faint, distant. But this voice was clear, sharp, as if the speaker was right beside her.

She turned her head slowly.

In the dim glow of the streetlamp outside her window, she saw it. A figure standing at the foot of her bed.

Unlike the others, this one wasn't just a shadow. It had shape, substance. Its head was tilted slightly, as if studying her. Its fingers twitched at its sides, long and bony.

"Elara," it whispered again, its voice a soft hiss.

For the first time in years, she was paralyzed with fear.

Her grandmother's warning echoed in her mind—never acknowledge them. Never talk to them.

But something in her, maybe curiosity, maybe recklessness, made her break the rule.

"…Who are you?" she whispered.

The thing didn't answer. Instead, it took a single step closer.

Elara's breath hitched. The air in her room grew heavy, thick like smoke. It was the first time one of them had moved toward her.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the bedside lamp, but before she could switch it on, the figure vanished.

The weight in the air lifted instantly. The room was silent once more.

She stayed awake until dawn, the echo of its whisper lingering in her ears.

Something told her she had made a terrible mistake.