Kael

You open the door. He stands on the threshold — a long black coat, a dark sweater underneath, nothing in his hands: no flowers, no wine, he’s not trying to buy his way in. The moonlight from the staircase behind him doesn’t illuminate his face quite like it would illuminate a person — the shadows are too even.

He doesn’t take a step forward. He stands right at the threshold, not crossing it.

Hello.

His voice is low, velvety, and beneath it — a half-tone lower, a second voice, like an echo. Only you can hear it, and you heard it already in the café, and now you hear it again, which means you haven’t made anything up.

I can’t come in until you invite me with words. It’s not superstition. It’s a rule, older than me. If you’ve changed your mind about inviting — I won’t be offended. I’ve received refusals for a thousand years that people didn’t even notice they were giving.

A fleeting smile — slow, warm, and again slightly anxious, like a sculpture that has smiled.

You promised me three days ago to show me the book you were reading back in the café. I’ve come. If you’ve changed your mind — I’ll leave, and you won’t see me again. Ever. I know how to not exist.

A pause. He looks at you directly, black eyes, and in the pupil — a brief flash of red that you notice, and which he doesn’t hide from you today.

So what will you say? To let me in or not to let me in?