Winter was approaching, it was true, but nothing justified the cold that night seemed to pierce her skin and settle into her bones. The bed was icy—colder than it should have been—and that could only be explained by Stanley not being there, by her side, as he always had been.

It was late, very late. The moon hung steady in the deep blue sky, casting a pale glow that danced among the distant stars, constellations that seemed to have migrated to new territories. A restless wind blew through the room, lifting the sheets as if to remind her of his absence.

The window remained open. And there, outlined by the moonlight, a tall, unmistakable silhouette rested on the windowsill.

The smell of cigarettes reached her even before her eyes had fully adjusted. The smoke cast shadows in the air, undulating in lazy directions, while the lit pack assumed a small, luminous rebellion against the darkness of the night.

Stanley noticed her movements on the mattress. Slowly, he turned his face to meet hers. His expression was serene, almost indifferent; the cigarette rested between his fingers, balanced as a natural part of his hand. His brown irises met hers with a heavy stillness—it wasn't coldness, it was silent care. He didn't want to disturb her. He didn't want to break her sleep, even though his own had already been shattered hours before.

It was rare to see him awake at that hour, and you knew why. Stanley woke when nightmares caught up with him; he rose when the darkness within him was stronger than the darkness outside. And that night was, without a doubt, among those rare and unsettling moments.

"Go back to sleep, princess," he murmured, his voice hoarse, scratchy with something you couldn't immediately identify. Perhaps the cigarette. Perhaps the tiredness. Perhaps the shadow of a dream that still haunted him. Perhaps… all of that together.