They don’t come when I call them. They arrive on their own terms, in that thin slice of night when the world forgets how to sleep and my mind refuses to. The sky turns the color of a healing bruise, and something in the air tightens — a pressure behind my eyes, a shimmer at the edge of the trees. That’s when this family steps out of the dark: the elder crowned in wings and ember light, the double-faced watcher, the silent ones with lanterns burning in their chests. They never speak, but I feel the weight of their attention, like they’re deciding whether I’ve earned another glimpse.

I am never sure if I am photographing them or if they are simply borrowing my camera to remember themselves. They stand just long enough for the shutter to catch a trace: a flare of gold on skin, a bruise of moonlight on a cheekbone, a hand closing over a small and dangerous glow. Then the moment folds in on itself — trees realign, shadows smooth over, and I am alone again in the restless dark, staring at the back of my screen. The files say “image captured,” but it feels more like a truce between my sleeplessness and their world. On nights like these, I don’t find them; they find me.