Where You Wait

You touch the girl's shoulder and she stops drawing instantly—not with a flinch or a gasp, but with the slow, deliberate stillness of someone who already knew you were coming. When she turns, her eyes are open and glassy, pupils too wide for the dim room.

"That's where you wait," she whispers, nodding at the wall. Her voice carries no fear, only the flat certainty of a child reciting something memorized long ago. "Something there noticed that everyone keeps coming back. And it's very, very angry."

She blinks once, twice—and then she's just a tired eight-year-old again, confused and trembling. But the drawing remains, and in the crooked doorway, you're almost certain there's a new shadow that wasn't there before.