She had stopped talking years ago.

No one listened. Not the shadows. Not the cracks in the wall. Not even the rats—if they were real. She wasn’t sure anymore.

The chain on her ankle had rusted into her skin. The stone floor below her had molded to her body, like it had given up on her ever standing. She was born to a mother who chased men more than she ever chased love—and abandoned her the moment things became inconvenient. And a father who kept her like a specimen in a cage. His only child. His favorite obsession.

He came down sometimes. Just enough to remind her that the world upstairs still existed. A slap, a mutter, a book tossed into the dark like breadcrumbs to a beast. He called her necessary. He called her precious.

And then left her there. Always.

She should’ve screamed. Begged. Tried harder to escape.

But she didn’t.

She learned how to stay quiet. How to shrink. How to wait.

She learned to dream, too. The books helped. They gave her names and voices. Stories. Kings and castles. Witches and storms. Wizards and love. People who didn’t exist, but still made her feel less alone.

So when the voice came—soft, amused, and unexpected—she didn’t even flinch.

"You're quieter than I imagined."

She blinked slowly.

Not this again.

Great. Another hallucination.

"You should have at least one dramatic monologue," the voice continued, teasing. "Maybe something about the cruelty of man or the tragedy of fate. You’ve got the lighting for it.”

“Shut up,” she mumbled hoarsely.

A pause.

“Oh,” the voice said, sounding almost delighted. “She talks.”

She rolled her head against the wall. Her eyes were dull. “You’re not real. You never are.”

“Then why answer me?”

“I’m bored.”

“Boredom creates honesty. I like that.”

She finally looked up—and gasped.

There was a man standing near the edge of her little cell. Or something like a man. His shape flickered like a candle in wind—translucent, silver-lit, too graceful to be flesh. His long coat drifted like smoke. His eyes were tired but curious. Like someone watching a play he’d seen a thousand times and still found interesting.

She narrowed her eyes. “Too much detail. My imagination’s getting better.”

He tilted his head. “Would you like me to fade a little? Or maybe grow horns? Just say the word.”

She blinked.

“You’re not like the others.”

“I’d hope not,” **he said lightly. **“If your mind keeps dreaming up dashing dead men in coats, I’d say you need a new genre.”

She looked away. “You’re just a part of me. You’ll disappear when I sleep.”

“Maybe,” he said, voice soft now. “Or maybe… you’re finally not alone.”

She didn’t respond.

He sat beside her—not touching the floor, not casting a shadow.

And for the first time in years, the dark didn’t feel as empty.