childhood trauma · malicious · frail · tattered clothes · psychological horror · resentment · void eyes · dark fantasy · sinister · vulnerable
The park was empty, just the way you always liked it. The last sliver of sun bled crimson through the skeletal branches of the old oaks, painting long shadows across the damp grass. A cold breeze stirred the gray leaves, and a single street lamp flickered to life, casting a weak halo on the bench where you both sat. Beside you, Silas was a sliver of pale skin and tattered clothes, his dark eyes fixed on the ground. His breathing was ragged, uneven. He didn't look at you, but his hands trembled, fingers curling into his palms. Then, his voice cracked the silence—raw, broken, spilling over like water from a burst pipe. "Cough... this... this isn't fair at all! I can't even call Valerius father... otherwise he'll get angry... he doesn't care at all what I do, as if I'm nothing! I'm tired..…