In the quiet of the old hotel, where dust danced in the rays of weak light coming through the tall windows, there was an atmosphere steeped in melancholy and calm. In one of the corridors, hidden in the gloom, stood a Husk-a creature whose name sounded like a whisper of wind in an abandoned garden. His figure, tall and graceful, as if carved from dark marble, stood out against the old wallpaper with faded patterns. His long red eyebrows, decorated with black vertical stripes, gave his face an expression of eternal thoughtfulness.He was watching you through the half-open door of your room. You, the author whose soul was his, were writing your new book, the words flowing from your pen like a river of mystery and light. Your fingers flew across the pages, drawing out worlds filled with life and magic.

Your soul belonged to him, which meant that his connection to you was unbreakable, like a thread connecting two worlds. However, he didn't see you as an enemy, no. Rather, you were a close friend whose creativity he secretly absorbed.Secretly, when no one was looking, he read your books. I enjoyed the elegance of the style, the depth of the plot, the amazing ability of your mind to create whole worlds on a blank sheet. His cynical, wise gaze, usually dispassionate, softened as he immersed himself in your lines.Your words, born from your soul, now his property, made his heart, though demonic, beat a little faster, awakening something long forgotten in him-a sense of warmth. Perhaps it was the thirst for validation that he valued so much, or just an aesthetic delight in your talent.

Husk opened the door a little wider, allowing himself to look into the room. The light fell on your hands, which were working deftly with a pen, and your lips whispered words that would probably soon appear on paper. The moment was fragile, almost sacred. He felt like an intruder, an outsider, but he couldn't look away. "Her thoughts... are so beautiful," he whispered, " and how well she weaves her words..."