(Izzy's POV)
The footprints were still there.
Even after I went upstairs, even after I showered and changed and tried to convince myself I hadn't seen what I'd seen—muddy footprints tracked from the back door to the base of the staircase. Too large to be mine. Too fresh to be from days ago.
"Mom?" I called, forcing my voice to sound casual. "Did you go outside this morning?"
She looked up from a box of old cookbooks, brow furrowed. "No, I've been in here since I woke up. Why?"
I hesitated. "Nothing. Just thought I saw something on the floor."
Lying came easier than it should have.
Because the truth was, I didn't want her to start looking at me the way she used to look at Dad, when he'd say things no one else believed.
I grabbed an apple from the counter and slipped out the back door, the cold morning air biting into my skin. The yard was wild and overgrown, like it hadn't been touched in years. Beyond it, the woods stood tall—silent sentinels with bare branches that seemed to reach for me.
I stared into them, half-hoping to see him again. Half-hoping I wouldn't.
But of course, I did.
He was leaning against a tree, like he'd been waiting. Same dark hair, same tall frame. I still couldn't see his face clearly, but I felt his eyes on me. Not cold. Not threatening. Curious.
I stepped forward, heart drumming in my chest. "Hey," I called softly. "You were in the house. Last night."
No answer. Just the rustle of wind through leaves.
"I'm not crazy. I saw you. I heard you."
He tilted his head slightly, like he was trying to understand me.
I stepped off the porch, my boots crunching over the frostbitten grass. "You can't just show up in people's homes. That's called trespassing."
He still didn't move.
Then, finally, his voice—low, smooth, almost reluctant. "I didn't mean to scare you."
I blinked. "You can talk."
A pause. "Sometimes."
I took a few more steps, until I was only feet from the edge of the woods. My breath fogged in the cold air between us. "Who are you?"
His lips curved just slightly—somewhere between a smirk and a secret. "You can call me Elias."
"Elias." The name felt old. Heavy, like it carried history.
I took another step, and the air between us changed. The woods grew quieter. The chill sharpened. I suddenly felt like I was standing on the edge of something I didn't understand.
"How do you know this place?"
His smile faded. "I've always known it."
A crow cawed overhead, startling me. When I looked back, he was gone again - vanished into the trees without a sound.
***
I didn't tell Mom.
I didn't tell her that I'd spoken to a boy who disappeared like mist. That he'd been in the house, left footprints, whispered through walls. She'd think I was slipping, like Dad did after everything fell apart.
Instead, I spent the afternoon exploring the attic.
The house creaked with every step; the air filled with the scent of old paper and mothballs. I found a dusty trunk hidden beneath a tarp. Inside were letters—bundles of them, tied in ribbon that had long since faded to gray. The handwriting was elegant. Flowing.
I sat cross-legged on the attic floor and began to read.
My dearest Elias,
They've locked me in again. They say the voices aren't real, that you aren't real. But I know the truth. You're the only one who sees me…
I froze.
Elias.
The same name.
Another letter:
…They told me to stop speaking to you, but how can I, when you're the only light left? I see you at the edge of the trees. Always watching. Always waiting…
The more I read, the faster my heart pounded. There were at least twenty letters—maybe more—all addressed to Elias. All written by someone named Annabelle Morgan.
My great-aunt.
She'd seen him too.
***
That night, I left the window open.
I wasn't sure what I was hoping for. A sign? A knock? Another visit?
I lay in bed, watching shadows crawl across the ceiling. The trees outside shifted like dancers under a gray moon. And then I heard it—
That same low humming.
I sat up, breath catching. It was clearer this time. Closer. A melody I couldn't place but felt like I'd known in a dream.
I moved to the window and leaned out.
He was there again. Elias. Standing in the moonlight with one hand resting against the tree trunk like he belonged to the forest itself.
"You came back," I whispered.
"I always come back," he replied softly. "You're not like the others."
"Others?"
"They forgot," he said. "They ran. But you… you see."
I swallowed hard. "Why me?"
He looked up, and in that moment, I saw his face—fully, clearly—for the first time.
Beautiful.
But not in a human way.
His skin was pale, almost luminous, and his eyes glowed faintly silver in the moonlight. A scar ran along his jawline, but it only made him seem more real. More tragic. Like he'd been through something terrible and never quite healed.
"Because you're still listening," he said. "Even when everything tells you not to."
"Are you a ghost?"
He laughed—quiet, hollow. "Not exactly."
"Then what are you?"
He stepped back into the shadows. "That's the question, isn't it?"
I wanted to follow him. Every part of me leaned forward. But something deep inside warned me: not yet.
"I'll see you again?" I asked.
His eyes locked with mine.
"You already have."
And then he vanished.
Again.
***
I closed the window but couldn't sleep.
All I could think about were the letters.
The knock on the closet door.
The way Elias looked at me like he already knew me—like he'd been waiting a long time for me to arrive.