The.uninvited

It doesn’t seep in through a cracked window or a drafty attic. This cold crawls up the back of your neck while you’re standing in a room that should be warm. It’s the cold that arrives with someone—except no one has opened the door.

But you do not owe hospitality to a haunting. the.uninvited

“You are not welcome here. This is my Tuesday. This is my silence. Leave the way you came.” It doesn’t seep in through a cracked window

For me, it was the rocking chair.

You don’t have to fight it. You don’t have to perform an exorcism. You just have to stop pretending it has a right to your table. But you do not owe hospitality to a haunting

It arrives in the middle of your perfectly average Tuesday. Maybe it’s a text message from a number you deleted three years ago. Maybe it’s the sudden, heavy silence when you walk into your kitchen, where the air feels different—charged, like before a thunderstorm.

We talk a lot about guests in this life. The planned ones. The ones with wine bottles and wet umbrellas. We tidy the living room, hide the laundry, and light a candle that smells like sandalwood and lies.