Kaley didn't know the word for stalking.
But she felt it. Like air pressing in too close. Like a page being watched by someone who couldn't read but was desperate to memorize it anyway. Like curiosity with claws.
The glyphs responded first.
They flickered when she passed the window. Hummed when she opened the door. One even tried to leave the page—a whisper of ink that wriggled like it wanted to escape and go searching.
She drew it back.
Not out of fear.
Out of curiosity.
The glyph had tasted familiarity.
Her mother noticed.
"You've been twitchy," she said, handing Kaley a spoon. "Even for you."
Kaley stirred the cereal. The spoon spun too fast and bent the bowl. She blinked, watching the milk ripple in spirals.
"Someone's near."
Her mom froze. Not visibly. Just a subtle tightening of fingers. A wrinkle forming near the eye.
"Do they feel... bad?"
Kaley tilted her head, like she was listening to something far away. "Not yet."
Her voice was quiet. Not afraid. Like she was forecasting weather.
Outside, the wind whispered across the glass like breath on skin.
Her mother didn't speak for a moment. Then she crouched beside Kaley and looked her in the eyes.
"Is it the same as before?"
Kaley shook her head.
"It's softer now. Like a thread."
A pause.
"Like someone tugging from the other end."
Himiko was trying not to smile.
She was terrible at it.
The rooftop was hers again—the one with the broken vent and the pigeon with only one eye. She liked it here. It smelled like rust and secrets. The wind didn't bite. It murmured.
And beneath her skin—where her Quirk usually curled and twitched—there was something else. Something sweet. Buzzing. Ancient.
She could feel Kaley now. Not close. Not touching. But present. Echoing.
Every time Kaley's glyphs lit up, something beneath Himiko's ribs tickled. Like a breath held between heartbeats. Like a message with no sender.
She tried to mimic it. To match the rhythm. When she carved the glyph for Listen, the floor beneath her shuddered. The air went still. The silence deepened.
And then—for just a breath—she heard a voice.
It wasn't Kaley.
But it was because of her.
It said: "She sees you."
And Himiko laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it meant she was real.
She pressed her palms to the concrete, blood crusting around the newest glyph. Her fingers trembled with joy.
"She knows I'm here," she whispered. "She knows."
The pigeon blinked at her.
"I'll be patient," Himiko promised it.
The pigeon looked unconvinced.
Kaley stood by the window that night, sketchbook closed, hands still.
No glyphs now.
Just her. And the stars. And the feeling.
She didn't speak.
But the words came anyway.
"I know you're there."
The shadows outside didn't move.
But the wind answered.
It circled the eaves. Through the leaves. Into the gutter. Past the chimney. Soft and steady.
And a single glyph burned faintly into the glass.
Bloom.
Kaley smiled.
Then whispered back:
"Soon."