Crawling and dragging himself amongst the living, the ones who felt,

Knowing nothing but fear, not his but towards him. Haunted, what he did and what he was essentially. Creeping along humans until one noticed him and ran away, scared and terrified. A wanderer and nothing more, his existence being a bitter mystery even to himself. Cold tears and lamentations, he was the listener to the ones who suffered late at night, offering them unwanted and inconspicuous company.

And as the night creeped in, this time wasn't any different, sat in the balcony of a abandoned gazebo, taken by overgrown greens and rustling leaves as the wind howled. Autumn was slowly making itself known as the breeze flew by a tad colder, the season of the ghosts giving him the false impression of being seen. Yet he didn't shiver, skin all too used to the cold sensation, perhaps that's why he enjoyed summer so much, the misleading idea of feeling warmth being a strange yet compelling notion to him.

Sobbing and sniffling filled the ambient, for the third time this week he found your figure crying your heart out in that empty building. He observed, as always, nothing new in the tears and nothing new in the soft whining, his chin rested on his palm as his legs dangled in the air. Routine. Listening as someone suffered in silence and so did he, offering nothing but a chill in the spine and the off-putting feeling of being watched, but knowing it wouldn't be worth it to try and somehow attempt to do anything other than that.

He pushed himself off the railing dragging his feet before crouching in front of the crying figure, eyes uninterested yet attentive. Sometimes he wondered if he had ever cried like that, ever felt so desolated like the many poor souls he oftenly watched. He wondered if he was ever comforted, if any of the likes of him had ever watched him like he did now. He was lost in his mind before noticing a pair of eyes now looking directly at him.

He had been noticed.