The Stranger in My Photos 11
I didn’t open the door. I couldn’t.
My mom’s voice kept calling from the other side — soft at first, then desperate.
"Please, sweetheart. It’s cold out here. Let me in."
But the longer I listened, the less it sounded like her. Her voice started to stretch, warping between sobs and something else. Something hollow.

My phone buzzed again. Another photo.
It wasn’t my door this time. It was my bedroom window.

And she was outside now. Her face was pressed to the glass, eyes too wide, too bright. Her skin looked wrong — too smooth, too pale, like it didn’t belong to her. Like it wasn’t finished yet.

Another message appeared under the photo:
"She’s learning. She’ll get it right soon."
I didn’t want to look, but my head turned on its own.

The window was still closed. But the curtains were moving, slow and steady, like something was breathing behind them.
And then, from behind the fabric, I heard my own voice whisper:
"Let me in."

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Wow, that’s some descriptive masterpiece
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Blessed:
Wow, that’s some descriptive masterpiece

You can catch up with the rest if you seem lost🤗🤗
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👍
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