3 February 2026
The visitor arrived without knocking. She found him in her kitchen one morning, sitting at her table with his hands folded, staring at nothing. He wore a grey suit that smelled faintly of burnt paper.
She asked him to leave. He smiled and stayed.
He followed her to work, standing just behind her left shoulder during meetings. He whispered suggestions. Terrible ones. What if you pushed her down the stairs? What if you said the worst thing you could think of? What if you grabbed the knife?
She knew he wasn't real. That helped, but not enough.
At night, he sat at the foot of her bed. Sometimes he told stories. Once, he described in perfect detail how she might drive her car into oncoming traffic. The physics of it. The sound. He had a gentle voice, like a nature documentary narrator explaining the life cycle of something venomous.
She tried everything. Therapy. Medication. Meditation. He remained, patient as furniture.
The worst part wasn't the thoughts themselves. She'd learned to let them pass like weather. The worst part was how polite he was. How he never raised his voice. How he said good morning every day with the same pleasant smile, as if they were old friends, as if she'd invited him in.
Years passed. She stopped introducing him to people. They couldn't see him anyway.
On her fortieth birthday, she baked a cake and cut two slices. One for her. One for him. He didn't eat his, but she set it out anyway, because after all this time, it seemed rude not to.
The Unwanted Guest • Opuss № I