She did not steal sleep the way thieves steal gold. She took it gently — from the moments no one noticed slipping away.
I first felt her when the nights stopped obeying. When rest hovered close but never landed. When the body lay still and the mind kept walking.
They say she moves between breaths — in the thin pause where exhaustion forgets its name.
Those who meet her rarely see her face. They notice only that something has been lifted: a weight from the chest, a looping thought gone quiet, a memory softened at the edges.
She leaves no dreams behind. Only stillness.
Some wake lighter and do not know why. Others wake empty, as if something intimate has been misplaced.
I don’t know which I became.
All I know is that the night changed — and I couldn’t say where.