Caelum's apartment sat on the ninth floor of an older building, the kind that was quiet in the daytime and too quiet at night. The walls were thin enough to hear footsteps in the hall, but thick enough that no one would ever know if someone was crying inside.
Not that Caelum cried.
He just sat.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound echoed in the empty room. No TV. No music. No distractions. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of city traffic outside the window.
He set his bag down.
Paused.
His hand hovered over the front pocket where the photograph should have been.
Nothing.
Just fabric.
Just absence.
Caelum inhaled, slow and unsteady. He walked to the small kitchen counter and braced his hands on the edge. His reflection stared back at him in the microwave door — faint, distorted.
He looked tired.
He always looked tired.
Not because of lack of sleep.
Because of weight.
The kind that sits behind the ribs.
The kind you can't set down.
He closed his eyes.
And the presence stirred again.
Not loud.Not angry.Just familiar.
Like someone else in the room.
You mourn a moment as if it defines you.
Caelum's jaw tensed.
"Shut up."
His voice cracked on the last word.
The presence did not retreat.
It settled.Like a shadow shifting to get comfortable.
I am not your enemy.
Caelum exhaled through his teeth. "You're the reason I can't have anything good."
No.The reply was soft — almost gentle.I am the reason you survive.
A faint vibration rippled through the kitchen sink — subtle, like heat in the air. Caelum opened his eyes quickly, stopping it before reality warped again.
He moved to the living room — if it could even be called that. There was a couch. A lamp. A coffee table that held exactly one thing:
A small sketchbook.
Caelum sat on the worn cushions and opened it.
On every page:Tavian.Selene.People laughing.People alive.
Drawn not because he liked drawing.
But because memory was not a guarantee anymore.
His hand hesitated over the next blank page.
He didn't try to recreate the lost photograph.
He didn't think he deserved to.
The door buzzer suddenly broke the silence — sharp, unexpected.
Caelum flinched.
Nobody visited him.
He stood slowly and crossed to the door. His hand paused on the handle.
"…Cael?" Tavian's voice, muffled but unmistakable.
Caelum opened the door.
Tavian stood in the hallway, slightly out of breath, holding a plastic takeout bag and an expression that tried very hard to look casual.
"Uh. I brought food. You probably haven't eaten. Again."
Caelum blinked. "You didn't have to—"
"I know," Tavian interrupted, brushing past him into the apartment like he'd done it a thousand times.
He had.
But it still felt surprising every time.
Tavian set the food on the counter. "You doing okay?"
Caelum didn't answer right away.
Tavian looked up, and the silence between them thickened — not uncomfortable, just full.
Caelum finally spoke, voice thin:
"I don't remember how the picture felt."
Tavian didn't try to say It's okay this time.
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Caelum.
Not dramatic.Not desperate.Just steady.
Caelum stood stiff for a second — then allowed himself to lean.
Just a little.
Just enough to remember that he was still here.
Tavian didn't let go.
Not for a long time.
Somewhere deep inside, the presence watched.
Not jealous.
Not angry.
Just patient.
You will need me soon.
Caelum didn't answer it.
He didn't have to.
The silence answered for him.