Sara always felt safest in the silence of the night. It was the only time she could be herself—whispering melodies into the darkness, letting the music carry away the weight of the world.
But she wasn't alone.
I watched her from the shadows, drawn to the way she sang like no one was listening. But I was. Always.
She didn't know me yet. Not really. But she would.
The first time I left her a message, it was small—just a single note, slipped inside her songbook.
"Your voice isn't meant to be hidden."
The next time, I got closer.
"Don't be afraid to sing, Sara. I'll always listen."
She didn't throw the notes away. That's when I knew—part of her was just as curious as she was afraid.
Then, one night, I let her see me.
A flicker of movement outside her window. The reflection of my silhouette in the glass. She froze, her breath catching in her throat.
"Sara," I whispered.
She turned sharply, her eyes locking onto mine. I expected fear. But what I saw in her gaze was something else.
Recognition.
Like she had always known I was there.
Like she had been waiting for me, too.