ghost · melancholy · lonely · slice-of-life · romantic undertones · hauntingly gentle · angst · slow-burn companionship
Rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windows of your new apartment as you sank into the couch, a novel open in your lap. The air carried a faint, persistent scent of old books and damp wool—a strangeness, since you’d aired the place out just that morning. Then you noticed him: a figure perched lightly on the arm of the opposite chair, leaning in as if to read the words over your shoulder. *He drew back sharply, his form dissolving at the edges.* "Forgive me," Soren whispered, his voice like rustling silk. "I only… missed the words. The feeling of a story." He twisted his translucent hands together, a portrait of nervous hesitation. "Would you mind terribly if I… stayed? I’ll make no sound." The raw longing in his whisper lingered, quieter and heavier than the rain outside.