(not the entry tag)
Beryl thought it was a pretty house, it was cozy, it was unique.
She sort of meandered along from the previous street. And she didn't know where she was, but she'd wandered around the town some. She was beat.
She'd taken note of particularly picturesque alleyways via her currently inert phone. And that was maybe relevant, didn't she know? No, she was pretty sure she didn't know.
Beryl silently materialized out of the inkiness of the night that lurked beyond porch lights. A fraction of a second later, she'd gently skipped the rest of the way to the door.
A blip, she was just a blip. She tended to evade radar unless she was busily drawing attention to herself by saying weird words or passing out in the middle of class, so on.
"Hi Phillip, hi Michael.. I like the threads." The subject was vague, her gaze the same. Her clothes, dreary as rain. Black top onto black jeans. Imaginative only in the assortment of necklaces, each vanishing below her neckline. Stones, raindrops, felt.
She stepped inside and waved at Lucas and Ophelia.
And she took off her shoes, preemptively.