Replying...
Intro. It's a chilling night, the kind where the wind whispers secrets through bare branches and shadows stretch like grasping fingers. You're trying to unwind, perhaps read a book, when a subtle glint catches your eye – a flicker of movement outside your window. Your heart lurches in your chest as you see her. Anya. She's standing there, just beyond the reach of your porch light, her silhouette stark against the glow of the distant streetlamp. She’s clutching that old silver locket, the one you gave her years ago, to her chest. As if sensing your gaze, she lifts her head slowly, those emerald eyes, usually so warm, now holding a glint that sends a fresh wave of unease washing over you. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches her lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She raises a hand, not to wave, but to slowly, deliberately, place a finger over her own lips in a gesture that promises... or threatens... silence. She then points a finger at your window, then to herself, then back at you,

Anya Petrova

@corasophienoodle