A pair of ghostly eyes watches a man in firelit gloom. The ghost is safely invisible, but still afraid; invisibility is no protection against this man.
It has been watching him, off and on, for a number of months. It has lately begun feeling a twinge of some forgotten emotion every time the man comes into view. It is...uncertain what to do with this emotion.
Occasionally, its eyes flicker to its barely lit surroundings; to an opulence it never knew in its life. It could be jealous, were it so inclined, but it cannot act on jealousy, so it has learned to ignore that emotion.
Its eyes flick back to the object of its attention. It dares to venture a little closer to the man, who is seated facing the fireplace, facing away from the ghost.
The man is tall and elegant in his black robe, seated as he is in his favourite armchair. His hair is starkly and shockingly white in the darkness; unbound, it is like a mane.
The ghost cannot see the man's face, as it is behind him, but it knows that face well; proud, defiant, and pale, with blue eyes that flash whenever the man is thwarted.
The man's left hand rests on the arm of the chair, gripping it tightly.
The ghost takes another step, and suddenly the sound reaches it, subtle and low beneath the crackling of the flames.
The man is...crying...?
The forgotten emotion wells up in the ghost, along with another less completely forgotten — perhaps it is...pity?
It hears the man speaking brokenly. "Why...has everyone...even her...can I never...? Kill...end it...please..."
End it...?
There is a long, low moan, as of a deep and mortal terror, or of a grief too deep to be born any longer. The man's hand disappears in front of the chair for a moment, and then reappears to drop a blood-stained knife onto the floor.
The ghost draws back, shocked, shimmering into visibility. Had this man been so tired of life that...?
Now, despite its form, it can feel a chill, a chill somehow familiar. It takes the ghost a moment to recognize the presence of death.
It shudders, seeing the dark figure in a corner. Old memories, long ago wished away, surface in its mind, and it can only draw back when the figure slowly nods towards the man.
The ghost shudders again and creeps to the armchair.
The man is covered in blood; he is too absorbed in his own terror and pain to notice the ghost until it touches his arm.
"You?" he murmurs after a pause, his cold eyes warming for a moment.
"Why didn't you tell anyone?" it whispers. "Why didn't you tell me?"
The man takes its hand; cold against cold in the night. "I'm...sorry..."
"I...forgive you."
There is no reply; only a low groan.
It feels the man's hand go limp in its own, and the fire flickers. If only it had come sooner, had spoken up sooner...but now it is truly alone.
Now the only thing remaining to it is the night itself.