Someone Is Walking Around My Room… Invisible to My Eyes

In the stillness of midnight, when the house held its breath and the world outside sank into silence, I felt it again—footsteps brushing across my room, soft as drifting sand, yet unmistakably real.

I lay frozen beneath my blanket, eyes tracing the familiar shadows on my ceiling. Nothing moved, yet something was there. I couldn’t see it, but its presence pressed into the air like a whispered secret.

Every night it returned.

At first, I thought it was my imagination—the creak of old wood, the hum of wind against the windows. But then objects began to shift. My chair swung lightly as if someone had brushed past. My books rearranged themselves into patterns I never made. And the scent… a faint trace of old paper and rain lingered each time, a smell that didn’t belong to me.

One night, determined to face whatever wandered my room, I stayed awake with the lamp off and my breath held tight. A cold draft curled around my feet. Then—just beside my bed—the mattress dipped slightly, as though someone had sat down.

I whispered into the dark, “Who are you?”

For a long moment, nothing answered.

Then, a soft rustle—a voice like a breeze through leaves—rose near my ear.

“I’m looking for what I lost.”

My pulse hammered. “What did you lose?”

“A memory,” the voice sighed, distant and aching. “A moment that once lived here… and vanished before I could hold it.”

The air shimmered. A faint outline flickered—a silhouette like smoke, barely keeping shape.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” it murmured. “I only wander because this room remembers me, even if the world does not.”

The shape drifted toward my old wooden desk, resting ghostlike on its surface. For the first time, I realized: this wasn’t a threat. It was a remnant. A forgotten echo searching for a place to exist.

“What if I help you find it?” I asked.

The figure paused, its form brightening with a gentle glow. Then, slowly—like mist illuminated by dawn—it faded.

The next morning, tucked beneath a drawer I rarely opened, I found it: an old photograph of a girl and a boy laughing near that same desk. On the back, a name I had never heard… and a date from decades before I was born.

That night, the steps didn’t return.

Sometimes, while drifting to sleep, I still feel a warm hush of wind sweep through my room—soft, grateful, and finally at peace.