Still Night

The night tells secrets the day can only dream of. Without words, the scent of the cool pre-dawn breeze can paint an image in the mind's eye, coupling with the symphony of rustling leaves, giving birth to an entirely new entity that exists entirely in the thick, foggy consciousness that hovers between the waking and sleeping worlds. She lay in the darkness, her face bathed in the soft light from her open window. Strong, German features were dipped in shadow, the hollows of her eyes glimmering in the shade of her hooked nose. In the silver light, it was hard to tell what color her shirt was, let alone her hair or eyes. But those eyes, that should have been held shut by dead-bolted dreams and triple-locked fantasies, were open and staring. What she thought she saw was unclear, but she was staring directly into the face of a man that shouldn't have been there.

Like so many other things in the quiet night, his presence seemed... natural, somehow. Though he stood in the bedroom of a teenage girl and surely could have been convicted of three separate crimes by any judge in the county, the man's presence hardly caused a ripple on the night's smooth surface. The seconds and minutes ticked by at their normal speed, unperturbed.

When at last something happened, it was the man that moved. He lifted one hand smoothly, and laid a small piece of paper and a flower on the bedside table. The girl watched him. She didn't react, either to move or speak. A flicker of apprehension disturbed the calm features of the man, like a pebble dropped into a still pond. Just a ripple. After a moment's hesitation, he removed his hand from the flower and retreated a step. 

As he turned to go, the silence was fractured by a voice. The girl's voice. 

"Why are you here?" She didn't sound alarmed, or frightened, or even mildly upset. Her voice lilted with the soft, dreamy tone some girls adopted when paying no attention to an uninteresting lecture. The man stopped. A tremor ran through him, and the night seemed to shiver as it came in through the window. The moon watched, serene, but holding its silver breath. 

"I deliver messages." The man's voice sounded like gravel. Gravel in the throat of a large dog. Maybe this was what a Wookie would sound like, if it spoke English. 

"From who?" Her eyes were bright in the shadows of her face, but she didn't sit up. 

"You will know," he replied, and moved toward the window. Just as he reached it, he touched the windowsill, and disappeared. The note and the flower were still there in the morning.