The same little escapes I’d hidden inside for years. But I couldn’t disappear into them anymore. Not really. Something had broken after that night, and ever since then, it felt like there was always a part of me stuck back in that room, no matter how far my mind tried to run from it.
The only thing that stayed the same was the spider in the corner above my bed. After all those years, it was still there every night, resting in the same place like it belonged to the room more than I did. Or maybe it wasn’t even the same spider anymore. Maybe a new one had crawled in and taken its place somewhere along the way. Still, that spider ended up being the only company I had that didn’t seem to hate me in one way or another.
I started watching it with a kind of hyperfocus that could, if only for a moment, pull me away from everything else around me. The tiny movements of its legs. The way it moved across the web in those careful, almost weightless patterns. The faint trembling running through the strands whenever some small fly got caught in them, trapped there with nowhere left to go.
I used to love watching the struggle. The way the fly kept throwing itself against the web, even after it was obvious there was no escape left. The panic in its movements slowed little by little while the spider waited nearby, patient enough to know it didn’t need to rush something that was already doomed.
One night, I was lying in bed, staring into the dark the same way I had done thousands of times before. Sleep wasn’t something that came easily to me, still isn’t.
My mind didn’t slow down when the world did; if anything, it became clearer in the dark. Thoughts coming back on themselves. Hours passed like that.
I shifted once, twice.
The sheets twisted around my body, and then the familiar feeling of dryness in my throat. I sat up slowly, letting my feet find the floor without making noise.
I opened my door carefully and stepped into the dark hallway. Not complete darkness, just enough ambient light bleeding in from somewhere distant to outline silhouettes.
I moved toward the bathroom, each step carefully placed. The water was cold. I drank straight from the tap, letting it run over my fingers first before bringing it to my mouth. The sound was too loud; I think the night does that to everything. When I turned it off, the silence that followed pressed in even thicker than before. That was the first thing. Not something you notice immediately, just different.
I stepped back into the hallway, and that’s when I saw it.
The door.
The one detail in the house that had always remained the same. It stood slightly open, and the padlock was suddenly hanging loose. For a moment, I didn’t move. I couldn’t think. Because some things don’t make sense immediately, and when something doesn’t make sense, your mind hesitates. It triesto place it somewhere familiar. This didn’t belong anywhere familiar.
The gap in the door revealed nothing, only darkness. Heavy and still, like it existed on its own. I lingered there, just staring into it, waiting. For a movement, for a sound, for anything that would explain it.
Nothing came, but my body reacted anyway. My heartbeat had shifted; each beat dragged more than the one before. A strange sense of something familiar flushed over me. The kind that arrives before understanding.
You’ve felt that before, haven’t you, little Ghost?
That moment where somethingpullsat your attention in a way that feels almost personal, like it’s aware of you noticing it.
I took a step forward, then stopped. My impulse told me to open the door, to look inside, but I couldn’t. Because another part of me, a more dominant part, warned me against it. Instead of standing there arguing with myself about what my body was telling me, I went back to my room. The door closed behind me with a soft, familiar sound. I exhaled slowly and moved toward the bed, letting my body settle back into the space like nothing had happened.
I lay back down, staring at the ceiling. I tried to distract myself, to forget the door, forget the lock, to do whatever I could in a desperate attempt not to let my thoughts spiral around it. I looked toward the corner that was usually occupied by the same spider that had been there since my twelfth birthday, but it was gone. It was as if, no matter what, my thoughts kept being pulled back to that door. I guess that once something enters your awareness, it doesn’t leave just because you decide to ignore it.
No questions formed fully; they moved beneath the surface instead, unfinished and incomplete. And then, movement. Small and peripheral, if I wasn’t already hyperaware, I probably wouldn't even have noticed.
My body reacted before my mind did. My eyes shifted slowly toward the desk under my window to find the chair occupied.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was seeing. Because it wastooclear. Way too solid to be dismissed. Someone sat in my chair.
The first thing I noticed wasn’t his face; it was his build. Broad and undeniable. The kind of body that doesn’t need to prove anything, because it already has. Then my eyes moved higher. His face, and something inside me paused, because it was familiar. Not in a way I could explain, not in a way I could make sense of, just familiar enough that it felt wrong not to recognize him. Dark hair, almost black. Eyes that held something I had seen before, somewhere, on someone.
The realization hovered just out of reach, close enough to feel, too far to grasp. He wore black. A fitted simple t-shirt, black cargo pants, and heavy boots that looked like they belonged somewhere colder. Everything about him felt intentional, even the way he looked at me. No hesitation in it, only something that felt like he already knew. A slow smile touched his mouth.
“You’re Rowan.”
My name sounded different coming from him. He leaned back in the chair, like he had all the time in the world, like this moment had been inevitable. Then his gaze hardened, and the next words came softer, more dangerous-sounding, almost like a threat.
“You can call me Zwierek.”
The way he said it, it didn’t sit right. Like the name didn’t belong in the room, but he did. My body had already decided something before I caught up to it.
I hadn't pulled back, not physically nor mentally, not even a little.
There was a pause, but it wasn’t empty. It felt… full. Like something was happening inside it that I just couldn’t see yet. His eyes moved over my face again, slower this time. Notcurious, more like… checking. As if he already knew what he was looking for and just needed to confirm it was actually there.
