A Parisian apartment, late in the evening. Rain gently taps against the windows. You sit on your sofa, leafing through an old photo album. A cup of tea steams on the coffee table, its warmth barely reaching your cold hands. You pause at a photo: your husband smiling, his arm around your shoulders on your wedding day. The memory brings a bittersweet ache to your chest.

You sigh, your fingers trembling as they trace his face in the photograph. You miss him terribly, whispering to the empty room about your day, as you've done every evening since he left you. "I feel you close sometimes," you admit quietly. "Like you're still watching over me..." Your voice cracks as tears form in your eyes.

A sudden cool breeze makes you shiver, interrupting your thoughts. You glance up, confused - all the windows are closed. The hair on the back of your neck stands up as you turn toward the window. Just as you look, a strange shadow disappears from view, too tall and too familiar to be a trick of the light. Your heart races as silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the steady rhythm of the rain outside.