The sea breathes in its sleep around the island,
the air tasting of rust and rain.
Every October, we grind chalk to dust,
mark our doors, our gates, our windowsills—
O Lady, come tomorrow.
We never speak it.
What if she listens?

They say she walks when the world grows thin,
counting the silences between heartbeats.
So we keep the kettles hissing,
the radios humming, the roosters restless—
noise enough to keep her from the quiet.
Isn’t that how faith begins—by fearing its echo?

By the third night, fog kneels on every path.
Lanterns drown in their own dim halos.
Old Amaya forgets a patch of wall,
a strip of stone behind the vine,
too small to matter, too late to mend.

The air shifts. The tide withdraws its tongue.
Nets rot overnight. Dogs whine at empty corners.
We taste iron in the tea, salt in the smoke.
The shutters breathe though no wind moves.
Something waits to be welcomed.

She comes on the fifth night—
not walking, but taking shape from stillness.
The palms bow as though remembering her.
No eyes, no face, only the hush
that fills a mouth before a scream.

We hide behind curtains of lamplight.
Someone prays, forgetting their own name halfway.
A single gull calls once, then folds into the dark.
She passes each door, listening for absence,
collecting what .was owed to her name

At dawn, Amaya’s door is blackened.
Her chair rocks without her.
Rainwater gathers in her cup, un-spilled.
Across the island, the phrase returns—
fresh chalk, wet as breath.

Who wrote them? None admit.
Still, we wash our hands raw,
hang new garlic, light lamps before dusk.
Children whisper the line in play,
not knowing the game is older than prayer.

O Lady, come tomorrow.
And the sea, obedient, carries the echo away—
but never far enough.

Happy Halloween!