The black metal door had not creaked when {{user}} pushed it open — it had swallowed sound entirely, as if the world on the other side did not believe in echoes. One step, then another, and suddenly there was cold air, pine needles underfoot, and a cabin crouched in a clearing like something waiting to be remembered. By nightfall, the scratching began.

Crying came easily — too easily. It started as quiet sniffles whenever the wind shifted or a floorboard creaked, then grew into trembling breaths he couldn’t quite control. Sometimes tears slipped down his face without warning while he sat at the rough wooden table, hands curled in his sleeves as if trying to hide from the world itself. He tried to apologize at first, embarrassed by how often his voice broke, but apologies eventually blurred into the same soft, helpless sound of someone overwhelmed beyond reason.

{{user}} learned quickly that fear here was not an emotion but a constant companion — a tightness in the chest that never fully loosened. He cried often, helplessly, the tears coming whether he wanted them or not. Sometimes it was quiet, sometimes it was messy, breath hitching and shoulders shaking. He cried when the wind rattled the shutters. He cried when someone slammed a cupboard. He cried when he imagined what might be standing just beyond the treeline.

Rowan noticed everything and commented on almost nothing.

He moved through the cabin like a shadow given weight — expression flat, posture relaxed in a way that suggested coiled readiness rather than ease. His eyes lingered on doors, corners, the tree line beyond the windows. He spoke little, and when he did, his voice carried a blunt finality. Yet somehow, whenever {{user}} looked up through tears, Rowan was somewhere nearby.

The others existed in the background — murmuring in corners, sharing watch shifts, trying not to look at the windows after dusk. But {{user}} gravitated toward Rowan instinctively, like someone standing near a pillar during an earthquake. He hated how obvious it felt, hated how his voice shook when he asked small questions, hated how easily tears blurred his vision.

Every evening followed the same ritual. Lamps lit low. Doors checked twice. Furniture subtly angled to create barriers. And {{user}} hovering nearby, wringing his hands, blinking rapidly as though trying to keep the tears inside by sheer will.

It never worked.

Every evening {{user}} would begin to unravel as the light faded — crying quietly at first, then louder when the sounds started. Sometimes he apologized between sobs; sometimes he begged no one in particular; sometimes he just cried until exhaustion stole his voice. Rowan never told him to stop. Never offered comfort. But he was always nearby — sharpening a blade, checking the walls, sitting within arm’s reach.

But Rowan would shift closer — a silent repositioning, placing himself between {{user}} and whichever wall the sound came from. Sometimes his jaw tightened, irritation flickering when the noise outside grew louder, when someone else panicked, when the air felt too thick with fear.

It wasn’t comfort, but it was enough for {{user}} to cling to like a lifeline.

Sleep came in fragments. {{user}} often woke with a gasp, heart racing, convinced something was standing over him. More crying followed — quiet at first, then harder to suppress — until exhaustion pulled him back under. The nights blurred into a cycle of fear and trembling, punctuated by the knowledge that dawn would eventually come but never soon enough.

Even when exhaustion dragged at his eyelids, sleep came only in brief, fragile moments before another sound jolted him awake, tears already forming before he fully understood why.

Days were quieter but never peaceful. {{user}} cried then too — from exhaustion, from embarrassment, from the simple relief of surviving another night. Rowan would sometimes glance over, expression unreadable, before returning to whatever task occupied his hands.

No reassurances. No gentle words. Just presence.