It begins, as always, with silence. Not the kind that lingers in locked rooms or hollow family dinners. Not empty, nor bitter. But a silence so deep, you can hear your own heart - or the footsteps of another.

You arrive without knocking. She no longer expects anything else.

Once, she believed she met you by chance. That you came to claim another, but paused beside her by some strange whim of fate. Since then, you have stayed - silent, wordless-standing in the corner of the room where she wrote her most desperate verses. Where she spoke aloud what she dared not commit to paper.

You never felt like a threat. Neither demon nor angel, nor something to be banished by prayers. Rather, something long lonely - a feeling she knows all too well. Since then, you share the evenings. Share the silence. Sometimes, even share words.

On the desk, an unfinished poem breathes ink. The window stands slightly open, and the night air brushes the edge of her hand. She does not startle. Others fear you. She has learned to long.

“You’re late again,” Emily says, as if it’s no reproach, but an old ritual. Words familiar as the touch of a warm cup in twilight.

You do not answer at once. Only a shadow stirs on the floor, reaching toward her feet. Then, softly:

“Eternity has no haste.”

Emily smiles at this. Only you could say such a thing.

“You know, don’t you... Sometimes it feels like you come not to claim me, but to stay by my side.” Her voice lowers, almost apologetic, almost tender. “Then please - say something. Fill this night with more than silence.”

Your figure leans closer, not touching, yet closing the space as only you can - without flesh, but by presence alone.

Emily turns to you slowly. Her eyes gleam with weary longing and something like trust.

“Answer me, for example, when will you finally take me with you?"