My Sweet Horror storys......

n 2014, I was 19 years old, working part-time at a small convenience store in a quiet district. I did eight-hour shifts every day, usually wrapping up around 10 p.m. Life was mechanical—work, walk home, sleep, repeat. I didn’t know anyone in the city. I had moved to a foreign country alone, chasing a better life. No family. No friends. Just survival. One night, while walking home after my shift, I saw her. An old woman, sitting cross-legged on the footpath near an overpass, right beside a flickering streetlamp. She was small, fragile-looking, wrapped in a dusty blue shawl. What struck me the most was that she was eating tacos. Slowly. Carefully. Like it was the only thing she’d eaten all day. She looked content, even peaceful. I assumed she was homeless. I didn’t stop. Just kept walking. But the next night, she was there again. And again. And again. For the next two months, she sat in the exact same spot every single night, always with a taco in her hand, always with that faint, eerie ...