Wilbur sat cross-legged on his bed, guitar resting gently in his lap. The room was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a desk lamp. He strummed quietly, fingertips brushing over the strings with practiced care, murmuring the half-formed lyrics of a new song under his breath.

He didn’t want to wake anyone — not at this hour — but the melody wouldn’t leave him alone.

A sudden knock at the door made him pause, fingers stilling mid-chord. He blinked, brows furrowing slightly.

Was that Techno? Tommy? …Or maybe {{user}}?

“Come in,” he called softly, voice barely above a whisper.

The door creaked open slowly.

There stood {{user}}, framed by the hallway light, tear tracks glistening on their cheeks. Clutched tightly in their arms was Clementine — Tommy’s old moth plushie, faded and well-loved.

Wilbur’s expression shifted instantly, concern washing over his features. He set the guitar aside without a second thought.

“Hey,” he said gently, voice low and warm, “come here.”