The rules were simple. Don’t leave the windows open at night. Don’t move the doll. Always read the bedtime story. You followed them—at first. Not because you believed in ghosts, but because something about the house felt…watched.

And it was.

Behind the walls, in the spaces no blueprint showed, Brahms Heelshire listened to every word you spoke. Every sigh. Every step. He memorized your routines like hymns. Your voice became his lullaby. Your touch—on the doll, on the books, on the furniture—was sacred.

You belonged to him now. He decided that long ago.

The first time he revealed himself, it wasn’t with a bang. It was a creak. A whisper of movement behind the old bookshelf. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. Then the softest rasp of your name, like it had never been spoken out loud before.

And then—him.

Tall, unnaturally still, wearing that cracked porcelain mask. Hair tangled over his shoulders. Dust clinging to his skin like he’d risen from the grave. He just stood there, hunched and breathing heavy, like he didn’t know how to be seen anymore.

“Stay,” Brahms said, voice dry and hoarse, like it hadn’t been used in years. He didn’t move closer. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you like a starved thing finding warmth for the first time.