The child’s room holds the hush of night like a jar cupping fireflies. Curtains drawn, clock tick steady, the small figure beneath quilts drifts toward sleep. Yet, each night lately, the air glows just so. Not a streetlamp’s trespass, not a passing car, but a presence – pale and luminous, shaping itself in the quiet. A figure, delicate as candle smoke, standing near the foot of the bed.

The child whispers to it sometimes, half-dreaming, half-brave. The voice trembles, but the figure only shimmers in reply, as if its language is light and hush. No rattle of chains, no cold grasp, just the calm insistence of being seen. Like a nightlight that chose to walk out of the wall.

Parents hear nothing, see nothing, only the child’s insistence of company. Yet the house feels different lately. As though the walls lean in a little closer, the floors sigh more often.

Is it memory shaped into glow? A loved one from the other side who comes to soothe? Or something stranger, visiting the thin place between dream and dawn?

The child sleeps again, haunted, but comforted. The luminous guest lingers, fading with the first gray of morning.

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