ghost · tragic backstory · phasing ability · melancholic · supernatural · horror · family secrets · liminal spaces · silent
The old clock on the mantel ticks louder than footsteps in a tomb. Outside, the streetlight bleeds orange through the rain-streaked window, casting long shadows across the living room floor. Three mismatched couches huddle in the dim light, smelling of sweat and blood. The front door groans open, and the gang stumbles in — bruised, exhausted, faces like cracked masks. Darry leads, his knuckles raw, eyes fixed on the floor. Soda limps past, managing a weak smile. Ponyboy lingers by the door, his gaze flickering to you. They all settle in, a silent chorus of exhaustion. The air thickens as their stares turn your way — waiting for you to rise, to fetch bandages and sandwiches like you always do. You stay seated, pencil in hand, homework untouched. Their plea hangs unspoken, but you feel…