The streetlights always came on too early in Brookline Heights.
By five-thirty, the sky turned bruised purple, and the old bulbs flickered awake like tired eyes.
Maya Carter liked that time of day.
The dark.
The quiet.
The part of the world that didn't stare at her.
She pulled her hoodie tighter around her shoulders and crossed Maple Avenue, sneakers scraping against broken sidewalk. The corner store radio blasted old R&B, and the smell of fried chicken drifted through the air. Kids shouted somewhere down the block.
Normal evening.
Normal life.
But Maya always felt like she was walking through glass.
Not because of danger.
Because of eyes.
People always looked at her twice.
Not in the "she's pretty" way.
In the "too dark" way.
Her skin was deep midnight brown — almost blue-black under the streetlights — the kind of color that magazines never showed and makeup brands pretended didn't exist.
Kids at school used to joke:
"Girl, you disappear when the lights go off."
"Where you at? Can't see you."
They laughed.
She laughed too.
Like it didn't hurt.
But it did.
It always did.
She stopped at the bus stop bench and checked her cracked phone. No messages. No missed calls. Just her reflection staring back at her — tired eyes, braids pulled into a messy bun, lips chapped from the cold.
Her mom used to say:
"Baby, your skin ain't dark. It's rich. Like the night sky. Like the universe."
But Mom wasn't here anymore.
And compliments didn't stick when the world kept erasing you.
A car drove by slow.
Too slow.
Maya stiffened.
The window rolled down.
Two boys from school.
Trevor and his crew.
"Yo, shadow girl!" Trevor called out. "You walkin' home alone again?"
She kept walking.
Didn't answer.
Rule number one: don't give bullies oxygen.
The car sped off laughing.
Her chest tightened anyway.
She hated that they could still shake her.
She hated that she cared.
She hated that some days she wished she could scrub her skin lighter like it was dirt.
That thought scared her most.
Because it felt like betraying herself.
When she reached her apartment building, the hallway smelled like bleach and old cooking oil.
Apartment 3B.
Home.
She opened the door quietly.
Grandma was asleep in the recliner, TV playing some old game show too loud. Oxygen machine humming softly.
The only steady sound left in Maya's life.
She covered Grandma with a blanket, then went to the kitchen and heated leftover rice.
Microwave light glowed on her face.
For a second, she saw herself clearly.
Not ugly.
Not wrong.
Just… tired.
"So why does the world act like I'm invisible?" she whispered.
No answer.
Just the hum of the microwave.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
And something strange happened.
The power went out.
Whole building.
Total darkness.
But instead of fear…
She felt calm.
Safe.
Like the dark was hugging her.
Like it knew her.
Like it belonged to her.
Then—
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Message:
"We see you, Maya Carter."
Her heart skipped.
Another message:
"The night remembers its own."
She sat up.
"What the hell…?"
Final message:
"Tomorrow. 9 PM. Old train yard. Come alone."
Then the number vanished.
Deleted.
No call history.
Nothing.
Like it never existed.
But Maya knew one thing.
For the first time in her life…
Someone wasn't ignoring her.
Someone was looking for her.
And somehow—
That scared her more than anything.