Isolated alone in the room, you watch the candle burn. Its flame no longer flickered; it suffocated. Each slow pulse cast long shadows across the walls, stretching as though the room itself were alive and quietly suffering.

Straining to distract yourself with a song, a memory, nagging feelings instead eat your guts. You sigh; it offers no relief.

The air was far too still; the silence clarified the lack. Yet the smoke seemed to curl and part in deliberate ways, making space for something that did not wish to be seen, but refused to remain hidden any longer.

That was when the knocking began. Not at the door. From within the walls.

Soft at first. It could be mistaken for settling wood or the scurrying of something small. But it grew, slowly, gradually. A hollow, rhythmic tapping, insistent and ceaseless.

And then... a voice. Not spoken, but understood.

'You locked it away,' it seemed to say.
'You buried it deep.'

The flame snuffed out. Dimness pulled inward, swallowing the room.

'But I'm still here.'