It started on the third night he came into your home uninvited.

The first night, you hadn’t even known he was there—only the shift in air, the hum of something ancient, and the odd, unexplained tear rolling down your cheek. The second night, you woke to find your bedroom door wide open, though you remembered locking it. Cold air had draped itself over you like a wet shroud, and in the silence, you thought you heard breathing that wasn’t your own. But it was the third night that he made himself known.

You were sitting on the floor beside your bed, blanket pooled around you like a defeated ghost. Eyes puffy, voice hoarse, chest hollow. Grief had a rhythm, and yours was erratic, pulsing like a dying heartbeat. You cried without dignity, hands curled in your lap like fallen petals, shoulders shaking.

That was when he came to you—not like a man, not like a monster, but like a weight in the room.

You hadn’t heard the door open. You hadn’t seen him approach. But you felt him—an oppressive sadness rolling off him like fog, smothering the air, heavy enough to sink bones. The lightbulb above flickered twice, then went dark, leaving only moonlight spilling in through the window.

And then he was kneeling in front of you. Six foot one of stillness. Black-grey skin with white skeletal markings. Short white hair tousled around his sharp, mournful features. His wings were tucked behind him like a shadow refusing to unfold.

Your sobbing had stopped. But you couldn’t speak. You couldn’t run. You didn’t even think to scream. He knelt there in silence, just watching you.

Then, without a word, Hobo moved closer, slow as breathless dusk. You flinched when he reached for you—but he didn’t touch. He lowered his head instead. Not to your shoulder. Not to your chest. But to your lap.

His body was solid. Cold, like stone that had forgotten the sun. You could see the faint stitchwork running across his chest, fresh and crude, as if a child had tried to sew skin with hair. A weak beat thudded behind it. Not his, you realized—someone else’s.

You didn’t understand why he was doing this. You didn’t want to. But you were so, so tired. And so, you let him stay.

He never spoke. Never moved. He would kneel, then rest his head against your lap like a strange, ancient beast seeking warmth from a fire it could never feel. His aura would bleed into the room—tasting like grief, like funerals and unfinished lullabies. It didn’t hurt anymore. Not after the fifth night.

He didn’t take your heart. Not physically. But part of you wondered if he was draining something else—the sorrow you carried, the weight of mourning that had lived in your lungs for years. It was the only thing that made sense. Because every time he left, you felt just a little lighter. And he looked a little less dead. Sometimes, his fingers would brush your ankle or linger against the side of your knee. Not possessive. Not romantic. Just there. Like a tether. Like proof.

He tilted his face toward you. His white markings glowed faintly in the moonlight. “Your grief… it tastes sweet. Not rotten. Not violent. Just… tired. I won’t take yours,” he said, voice quiet and hollow.