LINGER

The sun dipped behind palm shadows.

Cayenne Cove slipped into silence.

The tourists were gone.

He arrived with the dusk, a stranger gliding through unlocked doors and cracked windows. Not to steal—just to linger.

Maggie saw the porch light flicker.

Her gardenias smelled sharper.

A soft creak. A whisper too low to catch.

Books shifted. Shoes moved.

At night, Maggie listened.

The sea wind carried secrets.

Something waited in the dark.

Something that lingered.

Maggie’s eyes traced the shadows cast by the flickering streetlamp. The breeze was thick with salt and something else—an unease she couldn’t name. Her hands trembled as she reached for the door’s lock. It was already undone.

She didn’t remember leaving it that way.

Inside, the house breathed differently. The air hung heavier, as if waiting.

A photo frame on the mantle tilted, showing a smile that seemed too bright—too forced.

In the kitchen, a glass half-full of water stood on the counter, condensation pooling beneath it. Maggie hadn’t touched it.

Outside, the rustling palm fronds whispered, their voices mixing with the distant crash of waves.

Maggie’s breath caught. A faint scent lingered—something like smoke, but sweeter, almost like burnt sugar.

She stepped back, heart pounding. The porch light flickered again, casting her shadow long and thin across the floorboards.

A door down the hall creaked open.

She froze.

A slow, deliberate footstep echoed softly, then stopped.

Silence.

Then nothing.

Days passed, but the feeling stayed—like a weight pressing just beyond sight.

Neighbors spoke in hushed tones. Missing keys. Doors unlocked in the morning. Pets uneasy.

Maggie found a book in her living room she’d never read, its pages marked with a folded corner. No note. No sign who left it.

The stranger moved through the town like a ghost, leaving traces only the careful would notice.

Maggie’s dreams grew restless. Faces blurred in mist. Whispers at the edge of hearing.

One evening, she followed a faint light across the dunes.

There, on the beach, a figure stood beneath the moonlight—still, watching.

When she blinked, he was gone.

Something was here. Something waiting.

Not quite human. Not quite gone.

And it lingered.

At night, Maggie’s porch light flickered again.

This time, she didn’t watch from inside.

She stepped out.

The air was thick with salt and something else.

The gardenias smelled sharper than ever.

The door she’d locked was wide open.

She heard a whisper behind her—soft and low, a voice almost too familiar.

"Don’t lock it. Not yet."

Maggie’s heart thundered.

She didn’t move.

Because some things are meant to linger.