The night clutches tight, a thick cloak drawn,
Street lamps swallowed in a breathless grey,
Sound pressed thin against unseen walls,
Footsteps falter, unsure of their echo.
Mist coils low, deliberate, listening,
As if the dark has weight and intent,
And there — a figure, barely formed,
Not walking, but waiting in the blur,
Face smudged where features should be,
Head tilted toward some private whisper,
The fog closing ranks around its stillness,
Until you cannot tell if it stands — or if it is closer.