The city hummed like a restless heart, neon lights pulsing in rhythm with the traffic below. Mira Sylvester leaned against the railing of her small apartment balcony, a half-empty glass of wine dangling from her fingers. From here, the world always looked alive—buzzing, bright, almost too loud. But she liked it that way. The noise kept her from thinking too much.
And tonight, thinking was the last thing she wanted to do.
Behind her, laughter drifted from the living room. Janet, her best friend and roommate, had the TV on again—some reality show where couples argued dramatically over dinner plates. The sound should have been comforting, familiar. But instead, Mira's gaze kept drifting toward the darkened street corner below, where the lamplight didn't quite reach. A figure stood there.
Still. Watching.
Her chest tightened. She blinked, and the corner was empty. Just shadows and the quiet hiss of a streetlamp.
"You're doing it again," Janet's voice broke through her thoughts. Mira turned to see her leaning against the sliding door, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "Staring into the abyss like it's going to hand you answers."
Mira forced a laugh and set her glass down. "Just people-watching. It's cheaper than therapy."
"Mm-hmm." Janet smirked. "Well, unless those people start waving at you, I'd suggest Netflix instead. Safer for your blood pressure."
Mira rolled her eyes, but the warmth of Janet's presence settled her nerves. They had lived together for three years now, ever since college ended and adulthood came crashing in with bills and broken promises. Janet was the kind of friend who made the world lighter, who cracked jokes when Mira wanted to cry, who dragged her out for ice cream at midnight when deadlines piled too high.
And lately, Mira needed that more than ever.
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Her life wasn't bad—she reminded herself of that often. She worked at a small but growing design firm downtown, spent weekends exploring cafés with Janet, and occasionally convinced herself she was ready to start dating again after her long, messy breakup two years ago. Normal, ordinary, middle-class living.
But the city had changed in recent months. Or maybe she had.
Whispers drifted through the streets like cigarette smoke: muggings in alleyways, strange markings left on doors, rumors of someone—something—called The Raven. Mira never paid much attention to urban legends, but lately she had noticed more patrol cars on her street, more nervous glances exchanged between neighbors.
And then there were the feathers.
A week ago, one had appeared on her doorstep. Black, glossy, unnervingly pristine. She'd brushed it aside, telling herself it was coincidence. Birds existed, after all. But then another showed up two days later—this time inside the stairwell, perched delicately on her doormat like a gift.
She hadn't told Janet. Not yet. What was she supposed to say? That she was being haunted by a bird?
---
The night stretched longer, and eventually Mira drifted back inside. Janet had fallen asleep on the couch, a blanket tangled around her legs, her phone buzzing faintly with unread messages. Mira smiled faintly. For all her sass and sparkle, Janet worked hard at her marketing job and often crashed before midnight.
Mira gathered her things, deciding to head to bed, when a soft thud echoed from the hallway outside their apartment.
Her skin prickled. She froze, listening.
Another sound followed—a faint scrape, like something brushing against the floor.
She glanced at Janet, still asleep, then crept to the door. Her fingers hovered over the lock. Logic told her it was nothing. Someone dropping their groceries, a neighbor coming home late. But her heartbeat refused to slow.
Carefully, she turned the lock and opened the door an inch.
The hallway was empty. Silent.
Except for the feather.
It lay right in front of her door, black as midnight, edges sharp against the sterile white tile.
Mira's breath caught. She bent down, picked it up with trembling fingers, and turned it over. Smooth. Clean. Deliberate.
Her gaze flicked down the hall, but no doors had opened, no footsteps echoed, no shadows lingered. Just her, standing barefoot in the doorway, holding a feather that didn't belong.
She shut the door quickly and leaned against it, her heart hammering in her chest.
This wasn't coincidence anymore.
Sleep didn't come easily that night. When she finally drifted off, her dreams were filled with wings beating against the windows, feathers raining down like ash, and a voice whispering her name over and over.
Mira.
She woke before dawn, the echo of it still clinging to her skin.
Monday arrived like a slap. The city buzzed with its usual chaos—horns blaring, commuters shoving, vendors shouting from their stalls. Mira tried to lose herself in the rhythm of it as she caught the subway downtown, coffee in hand, hair tied back in a hurried bun.
Work was supposed to be her escape.
At the office, her assistant Amaka greeted her with her usual nervous energy, juggling folders and a phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. "Morning, Miss Sylvester—yes, yes, I'll send the file—hold on—" She handed Mira a stack of contracts without missing a beat in her call.
Mira smiled faintly, though her mind still lingered on the feather tucked into her bag. She told herself she'd throw it out later. Pretend it had never appeared. Pretend her life wasn't unraveling at the edges.
But pretending only worked so long.
---
That evening, as she returned home, she found Janet waiting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, expression sharper than usual.
"Spill," Janet said.
Mira blinked. "Spill what?"
"You've been twitchy for days. Don't play dumb. I know that look—you're holding something in."
Mira hesitated. The words crowded her throat, threatening to tumble out. But then she pictured Janet's teasing grin, her casual dismissal of Mira's balcony stares. If she told her about the feathers, about the shadows, she'd only laugh. And Mira wasn't sure she could handle being laughed at.
So instead, she forced a smile. "It's just work. Deadlines."
Janet narrowed her eyes, unconvinced, but let it go. "Fine. But if you start seeing ghosts, I'm charging rent to share this apartment with them."
Mira chuckled, but the sound rang hollow.
Later that night, when Janet retreated to her room, Mira sat alone in the living room, the feather lying on the table in front of her. She stared at it for what felt like hours, waiting for it to mean something, waiting for the world to make sense again.
But all she felt was the creeping certainty that her life—her safe, ordinary, middle-class life—was no longer her own.
Somewhere in the city, someone was watching. Waiting.
And for reasons she couldn't yet understand, they had chosen her.