The guest room was quiet.
Too quiet.
The moment Yurim reached the bed, her legs finally gave up.
She sat down, then slowly lay back, not even bothering to remove her shoes. The mattress was soft, warmer than anything she had felt since coming to this world.
Her eyes slid shut.
And instantly—
Someone was standing in the corner.
Tall. Still. A dark shape where the shadows gathered the most.
Yurim's eyes flew open.
The corner was empty.
Her heart thudded painfully as she stared at the wall, holding her breath. After a few seconds, she let out a shaky sigh. Maybe she hadn't really fallen asleep yet.
Her eyelids felt heavy again, they closed on their own.
This time, the presence was closer.
Someone sat at the edge of the bed.
So close she could almost feel the weight beside her.
A face leaned toward her — eyes wide, unblinking, lips curved into a soft smile that didn't feel kind.
Yurim gasped and bolted upright.
The bed was empty.
The room was silent.
"Ugh… it's happening again," she muttered. "My brain is creating scenarios on its own… I can't sleep like this."
She covered her face with her hands in frustration, still heavy with sleep.
Then—
"Just get out of here as soon as possible".
The words spoken by that boy echoed in her mind.
Earlier, they had sounded cold. Almost rude.
Now, alone in this house, they settled differently.
Like he had seen something she hadn't.
Yurim stood slowly.
"Maybe I should stay with the old woman right now," Yurim muttered.
She started climbing down the stairs, her eyes scanning the room with an unfamiliar gaze and fear.
As she stepped into the hallway, a faint sound reached her ears.
A soft scrape.
Metal brushing against metal.
Her heart tightened.
She stepped forward.
The living room was empty.
No grandmother.
The silence felt wrong — too clean, too deliberate. Her eyes moved slowly, searching. Then she noticed it.
A door, slightly open at the far end of the hall.
It hadn't been like that before.
Her breath hitched.
Every instinct told her to turn back, but her feet moved on their own. Each step felt heavier than the last, the air growing colder as she approached.
Another scrape echoed.
Slow. Careful.
She reached the door and pushed it open just enough to see inside.
Her eyes widened.
Grandmother sat near the table, her back half-turned. In her hands was a knife.
She was sharpening it.
Again. And again.
The sound was steady, almost patient.
There was no anger on her face. No emotion at all. Her eyes were empty, unfocused — like she wasn't really there.
Everything about it felt wrong.