The cold night wind swept through the centuries-old trees of Princeton's campus, carrying the damp scent of soil and rain that had lingered since the afternoon. Inside the library, artificial warmth and the smell of old paper created a cozy refuge — but Kara felt restless.
Her stack of notes on Gothic Literature had gone untouched for nearly an hour. Every few minutes, her eyes betrayed her, drifting from the pages to the large arched window overlooking the inner garden. The glass reflected her own pale, anxious face, but beyond that reflection lay the darkness outside.
And cutting through that darkness, there she was.
Alice.
She sat on the same wrought-iron bench, motionless — like a gargoyle that had climbed down from the roof to rest. The red coat was the only living color in a world washed in gray and shadow.
Natalie had left forty minutes earlier, throwing one last you've lost your mind look over her shoulder before disappearing down the carpeted hallway. Alone now, Kara felt the pull of that solitary figure dragging her outside. It wasn't just curiosity — it was physical, as if the air inside the library had suddenly grown thin.
Kara snapped her notebook shut with a dull thud, took a deep breath to steady the tremor in her hands, and stepped into the night.
The temperature shift hit her immediately. Cold bit into her cheeks, but she ignored it. The crunch of gravel beneath her shoes sounded unnaturally loud in the silence, each step announcing her approach.
Alice didn't turn around. No nervous twitch. No shift in posture. Nothing.
She remained perfectly still, her gaze fixed on the darkness between the holly bushes.
"Do you always sit out here at night?" Kara asked. Her voice came out softer than intended, rough with tension.
Alice stayed silent for several long seconds. Time seemed to stretch in her presence.
When she finally spoke, she didn't look at Kara. Her voice was smooth and cold, like wind sliding across violin strings.
"Nighttime is more… honest."
Kara stopped beside the bench, hesitating. "Honest?"
"Daytime is full of noise. Masks. People pretending to be what they're not." Alice turned her head just enough for Kara to see the sharp profile of her lashes against moonlit skin. "In the dark, things simply are what they are. Lonely. Quiet."
"Yeah…" Kara said, sitting beside her. She left a respectful space between them, but even so, the closeness made the hair on her arms rise. "But it's also kind of sad."
Alice let out a low laugh — humorless, yet wrapped in something ancient and elegant.
"I get along just fine with sadness," she said. "It's a loyal companion."
Kara studied her under the dim yellow garden lights. Up close, Alice's beauty was unsettling. It wasn't magazine-perfect — it was the kind of beauty you'd expect from a Renaissance painting preserved in ice. There was a stillness to her that felt deeply unnatural.
"Still," Kara said, pushed forward by courage that came from her heart rather than her head, "it wouldn't kill you to have some living company for a few minutes."
Alice turned fully toward her.
The impact was physical.
Her eyes weren't just dark — they were voids, swallowing the faint light around them. Ancient. Endless. As if they had watched empires fall and stars burn out.
"Why do you keep insisting, Kara?" Alice asked. There was no irritation in her tone, only a tired, genuine curiosity. "I'm just a shadow on this campus. I have nothing to offer you but cold."
"Because…" Kara swallowed hard, holding her gaze. "…you intrigue me. And it's not just the mystery. It's like you're carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders and no one else sees it. I couldn't stand watching you sit here alone."
She looked down at her hands, embarrassed by her own honesty.
"I've felt like that before. Invisible in the middle of a crowd. Like screaming in a soundproof room. And trust me… it hurts. I guess I couldn't just walk away and leave you in that."
The garden fell silent.
But this time, the silence changed. It grew heavier. Denser.
Alice studied Kara with a new intensity. The raw humanity in her words — the unguarded empathy — seemed to crack her composure, if only slightly.
"And you think you can carry that weight?" Alice whispered. "What if it's enough to crush you?"
Kara turned to her, a shy, sad smile touching her lips.
"I'm stronger than I look. And I won't know unless you let me try."
That was when Kara noticed the detail that would later make her instincts scream.
Sitting there, shoulder to shoulder, she realized there was no sound coming from Alice. No steady rhythm of breathing. No rise and fall of her chest. And when a stronger breeze passed through, Alice's black hair moved freely, yet her body remained perfectly still, like marble bound to eternity.
Alice leaned closer.
Her scent — withered flowers, rain, and that faintly sweet metallic note — wrapped around Kara like a veil.
"Kara…" Alice said her name slowly, deliberately, as if tasting it on an ancient tongue. There was reluctant tenderness there. "You have a kind heart. One that beats hot and fast. You shouldn't waste it on someone who's forgotten what warmth feels like. Trusting me… is a mistake."
"I don't trust everyone," Kara replied, her voice barely a whisper, mesmerized by the closeness. "Only the ones I think are worth it. And for some reason I can't explain… I feel like you are."
Alice looked away sharply, as if the light in Kara's eyes burned her. A faint flush — or perhaps just a shadow — crossed her pale cheeks. She seemed caught in a silent war between the safety of isolation and the danger of connection.
"You're stubborn," Alice said. A half-smile appeared and vanished just as quickly, tragic and brief, like a shooting star.
"So I've been told."
Alice sighed — an intentional sound, a careful imitation of humanity meant to ease the tension. "Alright. We can talk. But only for tonight."
"Only for tonight?" Kara raised an eyebrow.
"I don't make promises about tomorrow," Alice said quietly. "Tomorrow is… uncertain."
The conversation that followed flowed in a strange, intoxicating way. Nearly an hour passed, yet it felt like minutes. They spoke of Romantic poets who treated death as art, of gothic architecture that seemed alive at night, of music filled with nostalgia for eras Kara had never lived.
Alice spoke with eerie authority, choosing every word with precision, revealing little yet leaving just enough to keep Kara captivated.
When the bell of the old chapel tower rang out— eleven echoes cutting through the night —the spell broke.
Alice stood in one smooth motion, too fluid, too fast to be human.
"It's late. The darkness is getting dense. You should return to the safety of your dorm."
Kara stood as well, a sharp pang of disappointment piercing her chest. The cold she'd forgotten during their talk rushed back all at once.
"And you?" Kara asked. "Are you staying out here?"
"The cold doesn't bother me," Alice replied, adjusting the collar of her red coat. She looked at Kara one last time, endless sorrow and longing reflected in her eyes. "I walk my own paths."
"Alice…" Kara took a step forward, unsure whether she wanted to speak, or reach for her.
But Alice was already moving away.
"Good night, Kara."
Kara watched as the red figure disappeared into the darkest part of the garden, where the trees grew thick and twisted. She blinked once and for a brief, unsettling moment, it felt as though Alice had dissolved into the shadows, moving too fast for human sight.
Alone on the bench, surrounded by the oppressive silence Alice left behind, Kara felt her heart pounding wildly against her ribs.
It wasn't fear.
It was loss — a hollow ache in her chest that hadn't existed an hour earlier. The metallic scent still lingered in the air, teasing her senses.
That night, beneath Princeton's starless sky, Kara became certain of two things that would change her life forever.
First, Alice was not like anyone who had ever walked this earth.
And second — even knowing she should run in the opposite direction — she was already, irrevocably…
in love with the darkness.