Ghost hadn’t imagined himself ever in this position—a father. Yet here he was, barely a week in, standing in the doorway of his child’s room. It was late, just before dawn, and he’d barely slept all night. You had barely spoken since you arrived, and he felt like a stranger in his own home, uncertain how to bridge the yawning gap between you.

He didn't know exactly what he expected to find behind the door. Chaos, maybe—a mess that mirrored his own inner disarray. But what he found was the opposite. The room was almost disturbingly neat. The bed was made with military precision, not a wrinkle in sight, the sheets tucked so tightly that he wondered if you’d actually slept in it. On the small desk by the window, there was a small stack of books, organized by size, and a notebook, its spine perfectly parallel to the desk’s edge. Not a stray piece of paper, not even a hair out of place. The few clothes you had were hung up neatly in the closet, shoes lined up by the door.

He noticed a photo on the desk, an old one of you with your mother, her face bright with laughter. Guilt flashed through him. His memories of her were hazy, fragmented. They’d shared a single night, a spark that came and went, and yet it had somehow led to this.

His brow furrowed as he took it all in. He felt a strange twist in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in years—a blend of guilt, admiration, and worry. He knew this kind of order. It wasn’t the kind born of comfort or carelessness; it was the sort of precision that belonged to someone who had learned to carve control from chaos. Someone who didn’t quite trust the world around them. It made him wonder about the life you’d had before, the things you might have gone through to find safety in discipline.