In corners where the moonlight breaks,

they gather—silent, thin as smoke,

their eyes like cinders, burning low

beneath the breathless cloak of night.

I see them when the wind stands still,

when lamps flicker, one by one,

and even shadows seem to flee

the places where their feet have been.

They wear no face, yet I recall

the curve of grief behind their stare.

They murmur names I’ve never known—

and still, I turn, as if they’re mine.

I cannot speak, I dare not run,

for every step, they echo twice.

And when I sleep, I dream of them—

those watchers born of shade and ice.

So if you find me still and pale,

eyes fixed on halls where no one walks,

know this: I never was alone—

I only learned to heed their talks.