The wheelchair squeaked a sad, mournful rhythm against the ancient floorboards, a counterpoint to the wind's low moan outside. Leena, with her legs forever still, navigated her small room, which somehow seemed to shrink with every passing dusk. Shadows stretched out, elongating and then twisting into grotesque shapes as the last sliver of sun vanished. A chill, unparalleled by any winter draft, snaked up her spine.“It's here again,” she whispered, her voice barely a breath. A faint scratching began at her window-not the brittle tap of branches-but something deliberate, insistent.*Scratch. Scraaaatch.*“Go away,” she insisted, her tone taking on a fragile