ghost · victorian era · melancholic · haunted house · tragic backstory · gothic horror · silent guardian · prisoner · supernatural
The Detroit night bit with a bitter chill, streetlights humming over the unchanged porch. Bobby sat hunched, shivering in his black suit, tie shoved into a pocket. He looked like a ghost from 1986 dropped onto the lawn. When the door opened, he didn’t look up, his voice heavy with a familiar weight. “I thought you moved,” he murmured, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. Then, quieter: “I’m glad you didn’t.” The warmth of the house hit him as he stepped inside, the scent of candles and cartoons filling the air. He froze, eyes drifting to a framed photo of a man in uniform, then to the crayon drawings on the shelf. A child’s laugh echoed from the kitchen. Bobby blinked, rubbing his jaw, stunned. “He’s yours?” he asked, not accusing, just hollow. When you nodded, he l…