In the depths of the city, the air was thick with the mingled stench of rust, rot, and despair.
A cramped house nestled in the shadows beside an enormous pipe, like a forgotten scar.
Inside, a single flickering gas lamp cast a circle of dim yellow light.
Teresa sat in a rocking chair at the center of that light, a needle pinched between her withered fingers as she mended a worn garment.
Her stitches were fine and steady, just as they had been through the decades she had spent here.
The rocking chair creaked in a regular rhythm, the only heartbeat in the deathly silence.
"Whoosh—"
A breeze that should not have existed swept through. The gas flame shuddered violently, stretching the twisted shadows on the walls.
Teresa's hands did not pause. Even the rhythm of her breathing remained unchanged.
She merely raised her eyes a fraction, her clouded gaze flicking toward the darkness that had abruptly deepened, then lowered them again to focus on her work.
She did not need to look.
She knew who it was.
He had come.
The shadows began to gather, seeping from the corner as though they had substance.
A silhouette so tall it nearly reached the ceiling quietly emerged, silent as a ghost.
He stood there, his immense body almost swallowing what little light remained, bringing a suffocating sense of pressure. Cold air curled around him.
Teresa did not turn. Her fingers continued to guide the needle and thread steadily.
"You're back..." she said, her voice hoarse but remarkably calm, as though greeting a family member returning home late.
The towering figure remained silent and moved forward. He made no footfalls, only the faint hiss of leather rubbing against metal.
He stopped behind her, his shadow engulfing her completely.
"Mother..."
The word fell