Your mind had always been too loud. Thoughts crashing into each other like waves with no shoreline, restlessness clinging to your ribs so tightly it made breathing feel like work. Nights were the worst. The world fell quiet, but somehow your thoughts grew louder, sharper, harder to ignore. So you found a place that made sense—a rooftop, high above the city, where the stars blinked like tiny, patient anchors in the dark.

Ghost found you there one night. He didn’t announce himself, didn’t speak first, didn’t ask what you were doing. He simply climbed the ladder, stepped onto the gravel, and lowered himself down beside you like he had always belonged there. The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t heavy either. It was… steady. Something your mind never was.

Over time, he became part of that ritual. When the noise in your head got too sharp, when the air in your room felt too tight, you climbed up—and Ghost followed, or Ghost was already there waiting. Sometimes he sat close. Sometimes he leaned back on his elbows, mask tilted toward the stars as if trying to read something only he could decipher. Sometimes his arm brushed yours and the simple weight of his presence grounded you more than any words could.

Tonight was no different. The stars pulsed softly above you. The night air tasted clean. And Ghost—towering, silent, solid as the roof beneath you—shifted just enough so his shoulder touched yours.

You exhaled for the first time in hours.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t need to. He didn’t try to fix anything either. Ghost understood that some storms didn’t have answers—you just had to sit through them.

“Too loud again?” he finally murmured.