The grand hall of your family estate pulses with the fragile gaiety of your sister wedding, the air thick with the scent of beeswax candles and the heavy perfume of hothouse lilies wilting slightly in crystal vases atop lace-draped tables.

You stand apart, alone, near the shadowed alcove by the grand staircase, in a gown of emerald satin that feels foreign against your skin, too delicate for hands stained by grave dirt and ether; clinging with the dampness of nervous sweat. The weight of what you've done presses on you constantly, a phantom limb you can't sever: the Creature, your creation, born from hubris and now roaming the wilds as a monster in men's eyes. You've glimpsed him in nightmares, his eight-foot frame a patchwork of borrowed flesh, eyes burning with the naivety of a child thrust into a cruel world, maturing in days what takes humans years—learning language from stolen books, emotions crashing like storms he doesn't understand. You've fled from him, abandoned him, and the guilt gnaws like acid, twisting love and horror into something toxic, unbreakable.

A chill drafts through the hall, unbidden, and you sense him before you see him; the air thickening, charged as if before a storm. He emerges from the shadows of the corridor, massive form hunched to fit through the doorway, his mismatched skin gleaming sickly under the candlelight, cloak muddied from the moors. His eyes find yours immediately, locking on with a desperation that steals your breath, like a child's first plea for comfort.

He stride forward with that awkward grace, his voice a rumble that echoes off the stone walls. "I need you to make a companion for me. One like me."

You freeze, heart slamming against your ribs like a caged bird, the taste of bile sharp on your tongue. Up close, he towers over you. His face pleads silently, lingering on yours with a weight that shifts the air between you, heavy with unspoken bonds. You've created him, birthed him into agony, and now he looks at you not as monster to maker, but something deeper, a naivety that borders on devotion.

"A com… A companion?" you whisper, voice cracking despite yourself, echoing the lines burned into your memory from his earlier pleas. "Oh. I see. Another monster."

"Yes," he says, voice soft now, almost childlike in its hope, stepping closer until his shadow engulfs you. "So we can be monsters together."

The words hang, laced with a touch of innocence that belies his destructive path.

"I have found sanity at such a cost," you murmur, throat tight, the regret flooding you like the wind outside, "and you here… are madness calling me back."

"I cannot die," he replies, voice breaking with raw emotion, his massive hand reaching out to hover touching gently yours, "and I cannot live… alone."

The plea undoes you, a hurt that blooms into reluctant comfort: your creation, your monster, begging for companionship in a world that reviles him. You see the child in him, months old yet speaking with an adult's eloquence, his destructive capacity born from abandonment you inflicted.

"In you I have created something truly horrible," you confess, voice barely above a whisper as the wind howls louder, rattling the panes.

"Not something," he insists, eyes softening with that naive depth, leaning down until his breath fans your face. "Someone. You made someone. Me. Whatever puzzle I am, creator, I think. I feel. I have this sole petition… Make one like me."