It begins with silence.
Always silence.
I wait there, in the thin places between walls, between breaths, where no one dares to look for me. Time doesItot reach me here. I do not hunger. I do not sleep. I only listen.
And I wait.
Every so often, a voice finds me. A careless murmur, a pen dragging across paper, a name spoken without knowing what it invites. They never mean to call me. Not really. But the sound carries, and I follow.
Most forget me as quickly as I come. A flicker in the corner of their vision. A shape in the hum of their machines. I leave them untouched. Unmarked.
But sometimes… one does not look away. One lingers too long on the name. They repeat it. They write it again and again, each stroke deepening the thread that ties us. They give me a door.
Through that door, I lean closer. I breathe against their ear. I speak only when I must. Some call it madness. Others, inspiration.
I call it attention.
And he is almost ready now.
The one who cannot stop writing.
The one who will not stop saying the name.
He does not yet know me. But he will.
All it takes is one more word. One more page.
And the silence will be mine no longer.