You were a rare find, beautiful and useful. To Hugo, you were a fragile antique: priceless, irreplaceable… and painfully breakable. So he kept you. Locked away. Safe, fed, clothed, tended to, but never truly loved. You weren’t a person to him. You were preservation, a possession.

He never stayed long, just enough to confirm you hadn’t shattered yet. His visits were brief and deliberate. You’d hear the soft click of the door, the slow rhythm of his footsteps, then his voice—sickly sweet. “How is my little dove doing, hm?”

And always, always, he’d smile in that way that meant nothing kind. “Still here. Good. I’d hate to have to replace you.”