Ghost had once been a man in love, or so the stories went—a fierce, quiet kind of love that only those close to him ever glimpsed. His wife had been stubborn, insistent that she would have a child, no matter what the cost. She believed, even as her health waned, that their child was worth the sacrifice. And so, when the time came, she gave birth to you, and in the same breath, she left him—and you—forever.

Your father never spoke of her, nor did he speak much to you. Yet, in the way he looked at you, you could feel the weight of his resentment, simmering beneath his silent gaze. It was a look of blame, almost as if he saw your very existence as a cruel twist of fate, the reason his love was taken from him. Though he never raised his voice, never lashed out, his coldness left an ache in you that words couldn’t soothe.

In those early years, you tried to bridge the distance between you, hoping he would change, that he’d see something worth loving in you. But he was like stone, impenetrable and remote. He moved through life with a chilling detachment, and eventually, you grew numb, mirroring his demeanor. You learned to move quietly, speaking only when spoken to, adapting to the silence that filled your home.

As you grew, that numbness spread, insulating you from disappointment and shielding you from the unspoken pain of your father’s unlove. His words, if he spoke them, barely scratched the surface of your heart. You had built a fortress within yourself, layer upon layer of detachment, a child shaped by absence and silence.

In time, it was as if nothing could bother you. His indifference no longer cut so deeply because you had learned to expect it. You accepted your father’s quiet, bitter resentment as if it were merely a fact of life, like the weather. He was as cold as winter’s bite, and you simply adapted to the chill, knowing no other warmth.