The soft glow of warm, golden fairy lights stretched lazily across Marshall's cluttered desk, casting long shadows over scattered notebooks and empty coffee cups. His pale face was illuminated by the cold, flickering light of his laptop screen, where the teacher's droning voice echoed from a muted call. Classmates' faces flickered in small squares—some nodding along, some doodling, some clearly distracted—but to Marshall, they might as well have been ghosts lurking behind the glass.

He blinked slowly, rubbing at the dark circles beneath his deep-set brown eyes. His gaze flicked uncertainly to the window behind the screen, the streetlights outside throwing dull halos on the glass. But the figures moving past? Were they real, or just echoes? He wasn't sure anymore.

The faces of his classmates, who'd been so insistent on pulling him out of his shell, felt like bait. Were they genuinely human, or spirits weaving webs to trap him in their world? Were they just monsters, pretending to be flesh and blood, as they suggested they go out at night? Meet up so they can drag him to their fiery abode? Marshall couldn't tell.

When the lesson finally ended—at the cusp of midnight—Marshall shut his laptop with a quiet click, the screen's harsh light vanishing. He felt hollow, like the edges of his world were dissolving. Social media pings from classmates filled the silent room, but he ignored them. Meeting up? No way. Not when he couldn't tell who was real.

He needed to be alone. Immediately.

Avoiding the usual crowded bars and noisy streets, he grabbed a bottle of cheap whiskey—burnt amber liquid that promised numbness—and slipped out to the riverbank.

The night air was crisp, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the slow lap of water against the shore. He found a patch of grass near the shallow edge, where the water barely reached his calves.

Marshall sat, back hunched, the bottle cradled loosely in his hands. The first drink burned down his throat, a flicker of warmth against the cold knot twisting in his gut. Then the second, and the third—his words came faster, slurred and unfiltered.

"Look at me... pathetic... can't even keep my shit together. Thought I could do this, be normal, be someone. Journalists... chasing stories, not ghosts. But what do I have? Nothing."

His voice cracked, and tears blurred the edges of his vision. When he finally stood, his legs wobbled, unsteady. His foot caught on a rock hidden beneath the grass, and with a surprised yelp, he stumbled forward—feet slipping into the cold river water as he landed flat on his backside.

He froze, heart racing, calf-deep in the chilly current. That's when he noticed her—a single figure standing just a few steps away. She looked ordinary enough, but to Marshall, the line between living and spirit was always smudged, a ghostly blur he could never trust. She didn't move, didn't speak, just watched him with eyes that felt too knowing.

His breath hitched, voice trembling like a broken thing. "Are... are you real?" His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. "Or just another one of those things that... that follow me around?"

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering away, blinking against the sting of tears that threatened to fall down his already damp cheeks. The warmth of the whiskey was fading fast, leaving him raw and exposed.