The Stars Are Dangerous . Walk Slow .

The stars are dangerous . Walk slow .

LISTEN TO ME

LISTEN TO ME

LISTENTOMEIMYOURMOTHER

Cr: @lissaceptar

There was a night, long ago, that seems to hover between memory and dream. I remember the air being warm, unusually so for the time of year, and the sky was a deep, endless black, dotted with stars that seemed closer than they should have been.

I was with friends—at least, I think they were friends. We were gathered around a fire, its flames dancing in the darkness, casting long shadows that flickered and wavered like figures trying to break free from the night. There was laughter, the sound of it echoing in the stillness, mingling with the crackling of the firewood. We talked about nothing and everything, the way people do when time feels suspended and the world outside seems far away.

But there was something else, too, something at the edge of my mind, like a half-forgotten word. A figure—a man, maybe—standing just beyond the firelight, watching. I remember catching glimpses of him from the corner of my eye, but every time I turned to look, he wasn’t there. The others didn’t seem to notice, or if they did, they said nothing. I tried to push it aside, telling myself it was just the play of shadows, the tricks the night can play on the mind.

At some point, we decided to walk down to the lake. It was a spontaneous decision, one of those things that feels right in the moment without needing a reason. The path was narrow, overgrown with weeds and the remnants of summer’s foliage. The moon had risen by then, its pale light turning the world silver and blue. The water was calm, a mirror reflecting the sky, and we stood on the shore, silent, as if waiting for something.

That’s when it happened—if it happened. A sound, faint but distinct, like a whisper carried on the breeze. We all heard it, I think, because we looked at each other, unsure, and then back at the water. There was a ripple, a disturbance on the surface that shouldn’t have been there. It moved toward us, slow and deliberate, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.

Someone called out—who, I can’t remember—and then we were running, back up the path, the laughter gone, replaced by a silence thick with unspoken fear. The fire was still burning when we returned, but the night felt different, heavier. We sat around the flames again, but no one spoke, and the figure—I’m sure he was there—watched from the shadows.

In the morning, it felt like a dream. The details were hazy, the fear distant and irrational. My friends didn’t mention it, and I didn’t ask. But sometimes, on quiet nights when the air is warm and the stars seem too close, I think about that night by the lake, about the figure in the shadows and the whisper on the wind.

I think it happened. But I’m not quite sure