Orange rays of light shine against the handles of his bike. Leaves fall around him, some simply resting on the path after a long day of hanging, and he bikes as they decorate themselves on his clothes.

The streets are barren of people and cars, and there are rows of houses that have begun to collect webs and dust. There are no crickets or owls to accompany the moon’s light, and the trees grow sti...

He wears his horns tonight.

Very rarely does he wear his horns.

Rebecca is dressed for bed, her sheets are cold, and she is ready to close her eyes and sleep, but he’s wearing his horns and waiting for her outside of her window.

Judging by the rapid beat of her heart, she is far too scared to dismiss him, so she smooths her nightgown from any wrinkles it may have collected while it was folded, ...

There is a man that stands behind the mountain. He wears a very large cloak, one that to an individual would look far too big, but to him, it is perfect. The hood is perfectly sized to fit his head and hide his face, and the coat of it is just large enough for him to appear bigger but not too large to where it drags against any surface he may walk on.

Specifically the surface of the mountain.

...

Dozens of people walk beneath the bridge. They pass it and they do not raise their heads to look at it. It is as if it is not even there.

Isabel, who is fairly new to town, comes to a point in which the bridge can be viewed clearly. Snow that falls from the sky settles on top of the bridge’s roof and the window panes that line the side of it are dark and foggy.

She turns her head left and ...

There is a jar of purple powder that sits beside her bed. It begins to collect dust as days pass, never once being used.

Every night, she fluffs her pillow and pulls her sheets open. She gets settled beneath her comforter, and when she thinks she is ready to remove the lid from the jar, her heart begins to race. Her thumb and first finger shake, and so she decides against it. It is a repetitiv...