When the witching hours strikes, when the sun hits a shadow just right, when the eclipse is high, one might glimpse it. In the corner of the mirror, behind the curtain twitching, down a path rarely trodden, one might find it. Through the mist, across the sea, in the long grass, it hides. An old, strange world.
Stare hard enough and you’ll see it. The woman with the winged shadow, the flash of scales under a streetlight, the man whispering in a language you can’t place. Be careful you never stare too hard, in case they notice.