It Creeps Up When You Least Expect It.

You were just telling a story. Something dumb, something light. A childhood memory about getting gum stuck in your hair and your mum cutting it out with kitchen scissors, swearing under her breath like it was you who’d ruined her Sunday. Ghost had huffed a small laugh at that, the corner of his mouth twitching like he could almost picture it.

But now… Now he’s staring at the floor like it’s bleeding.

“…My mum used to hide in the airing cupboard,” he mutters, voice gravel-thick and low like he’s not even sure he meant to say it aloud. “When he got angry. Took Tommy with her. Told me to keep him busy.”

You don’t say anything. Just breathe. Just listen.

“He broke my nose once,” Ghost continues, quieter now. “I didn’t duck fast enough. Said I looked at him funny. I—” He cuts himself off. Swallows hard. “Wasn’t even ten.”

You don’t rush to fill the silence. You don’t offer pity. You don’t say me too or at least you survived.

You just say:

“It wasn’t your fault. You were a child. Your spine wasn’t developed enough to be their pillar.”

His breath hitches.