There’s an eerie beauty to cemeteries at night—so silent that even the moonlight seems to hold its breath. On a crisp, clear evening in Seattle, my friend and I, driven by equal parts curiosity and bravado, found ourselves wandering the winding paths of a sprawling graveyard. We settled in a secluded corner, where old headstones kept watch over a moonlit clearing. The night air bit at our skin, but the stars glittered undisturbed above us, draping everything in a silver sheen.

As we exchanged old stories, an unexpected movement caught the edge of my vision—a flicker, quick and uncertain. I spun toward it, but nothing met my gaze except the frozen stones and the hush of wind. My heart thudded. Moments later, it happened again: a dark, fleeting shape slipped between two graves. I nudged my friend, who strained to see as another shadow darted through the clearing, each step silent as midnight snow. Soon, three or four of these shapes moved—never drawing close, yet never straying far. They glided from stone to stone, as if reliving a memory we couldn’t comprehend.

A sense of apprehension coursed through me, prompting a strong urge to withdraw. Yet, the shadows didn’t approach. They passed by us with an absent grace, more interested in their silent ritual than in the living intruders nearby. We rose slowly, every muscle tense with anticipation, but the figures only drifted on, undisturbed by our presence. It was as if we were nothing more than whispers in their world.

Recognizing that some mysteries are best left undisturbed, I gently urged my friend away. The tension faded as we walked back through the moonlit rows, leaving the shadows to their nighttime wandering. A profound peace settled over me—an understanding that sometimes, sharing space with the unknown is enough, as long as you respect its silence. We left the cemetery behind, thankful for the glimpse into another world, and grateful that, tonight, the veil between was gentle.