She Moves Without Footfall The hallway stretches, pulsing like breath— walls weep rust and whisper your name. She is behind you, always behind you, not running, not walking, just there. A dress stitched from moth wings, eyes like unopened letters. You never saw her face— but she knows yours as if she was born inside your sleep. Every door leads back to the first one. You try to scream but the air melts, warm as a childhood fever. You remember someone you loved, and that’s when she laughs.