His eyes were the dark hollows haunting her dreams each night she slept. He was the wisps of shadow at the windowsill, seeping through the glass and watching her every breath. He was the silence that fell on a stormy night, the featherlight footsteps on the bedroom carpet, stepping ever closer to the sheets hanging limply from her bed. His blackened flutters of hair was the frame for a face too pale to bleed. His soft hands were the midnight clouds to brush against her cheeks. His scarred lips, the gateway to the gleaming razor smile he wore on the night she finally stirred, her eyelids flicking open, to catch him watching. Watching as he always did. And before she had the chance to so much as draw breath, he was gone.