The City Dweller strode into the village coffeehouse, his presence as sharp and out of place as the suit he wore.

“You the mayor around here?” he asked brusquely, scanning the room with thinly veiled disdain.

“I’m not the mayor,” the old man replied, his voice low and steady. “I’m the shaman of this village.”

The City Dweller barely acknowledged him. “Right, whatever,” he said, waving a dismissive hand.

“There’s a girl wandering in my garden. We can’t catch her. Tell your people—whoever’s child she is—to come and take her home.”

The shaman sighed, the weight of countless warnings ignored pressing on his shoulders.

“It’s not a child,” he said softly. “What you’re seeing is an Evechi.”

The City Dweller frowned, his expression halfway between irritation and confusion. “An Evechi?”

“The house you bought is old. Older than this village, older than you can imagine. And the Evechi—she’s not a girl. She’s the spirit of that house. She protects it. She belongs there.”

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The shaman’s voice dropped lower, carrying a warning as cold as the wind in winter. “But she does not want you there. You need to leave.”

The City Dweller snorted. “Old superstitions,” he muttered, shaking his head. “This is the twenty-first century.” He downed the rest of his coffee and left without another word.

Back at the house, the little girl still lingered at the edge of the garden, her figure just visible in the fading twilight. The City Dweller shouted at her, his frustration boiling over.

He chased her through the garden, his feet crunching on overgrown gravel paths, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. But the girl always stayed just out of reach, her small frame darting like a shadow between the trees.

“Enough of this!” he bellowed, storming toward the old well in the center of the garden. The wooden cover, warped and cracked, lay half-broken over the gaping maw.

And then, for the briefest moment, she stood still.

The little girl, pale and silent, turned to face him. Her eyes gleamed like wet stones, dark and unblinking.

“You don’t belong here,” she whispered.

The words were barely audible, but they echoed in his chest like a drumbeat.

Before he could respond, the ground gave way beneath him. He plunged into the well, his scream cut short by the cold embrace of the dark water below.

The house fell silent again.

Days later, the property was listed for sale once more. The description highlighted its “charming rustic appeal” and “historical character.”

The Evechi waited, patient and unchanging, for the next unwelcome guest.