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Ever since they had taken him back to their world, he mostly kept to himself, navigating this strange new life with cautious steps.
Each glance around brought a quiet sense of dissonance, as though he were a guest in a finely tuned symphony he didn’t yet know the rhythm of. It wasn’t hostility he felt—this place wasn’t unwelcoming. Yet, it felt like their world, meticulously crafted and profoundly theirs, and he couldn’t shake the awareness that he didn’t entirely belong.
Every movement he made was measured, careful. He bent his big frame meticulously around the small space they shared, as though he were afraid to disturb something sacred. There were too many things he didn’t understand here, objects and concepts he didn’t even have words for in his limited language. It was as if the entire house whispered in a tongue he couldn’t quite grasp, and he found himself tiptoeing, figuratively, through this unfamiliar terrain.
It felt like a home he might belong to someday. Yet, the awareness of his own presence within it—so different, so outsized—reminded him constantly that he wasn’t there yet. He was still a piece that didn’t quite fit.
He hadn’t yet adjusted to this new life.
This space was undeniably theirs. Every corner, every surface bore traces of them, as if the house itself had absorbed their essence. The warmth of their touch lingered on objects long after they had left, a faint and comforting reminder of their presence. When they weren’t looking, he would quietly trace his fingers across those objects, trying to absorb the remnants of their warmth, as if he could store it in himself for later.
Their voice seemed to echo faintly in the wooden floorboards, as though the house had captured it. When they weren’t home, he would press his ear to the ground and listen, wondering if he could unearth the last traces of their words by sheer patience. Their scent was always in the air, caught between these four walls. It would start strong in the morning, then fade gradually until only a faint whisper of it remained. By the time they came back, it was as though their presence was being renewed, wrapping itself around the house again.
He tried not to inhale the scent too greedily, afraid it would dissipate faster, but the longer they were gone, the harder it was to resist. He would cave, again and again, drawing in their scent until there was less and less of it left, and then he’d feel sad for his own selfishness. It wasn’t enough. It never was.
Sometimes, he would curl in on himself, trying to make his long limbs and broad frame as small as possible. Maybe if he were smaller—small enough to fit in their hands—they could carry him in the hem of their clothes. They could take him wherever they went, and he could protect them, always at their side, instead of being left behind to wait.
But no matter how small he tried to make himself, his body seemed incapable of staying contained. The moment the door cracked open, he would bounce up like a spring, all limbs and motion, and in a few strides, he’d be at the threshold. They would barely have time to close the door before he was right there, chirping his greeting and tugging at the hem of their clothes like an overexcited child.
They always mirrored his greeting, their voice soft, while they patted his head and shrugged off their coat. Slowly, their scent would fill the house again, wrapping around the space until it felt as though they had never left at all.
He buried himself in the comfort of their return, his being quietly aching.
He had missed them so much.
*
Back in his world, every day was an endless repetition of the same desolate scene.
The walls were always a muted, lifeless color, neither comforting nor familiar. The only light came from bulbs hanging on the ceiling, their faint, sickly glow flickering intermittently. Occasionally, he stumbled upon a fire—a brief, fleeting brightness. Sometimes, the world would shift and leave behind objects that emitted light, but these moments were rare.
More often than not, it was water that dominated his existence.
Water dripped endlessly from the pipes above, cascading in uneven rhythms that felt more oppressive than soothing. It seeped from cracks in the walls like the world itself was bleeding. At times, it even rose from the ground, pooling and spreading like it wanted to swallow everything whole.
He still remembered a room he had once come across, where a narrow path cut through a bottomless expanse of water. It had been eerily still, save for the pale, ghastly hands that reached out from its depths, grasping at the air as if they longed to drag someone—or something—down with them. In his world, water wasn’t just persistent; it was relentless.
But nowhere was it more constant than in front of that doorway.
It was the place he had waited, day after day, drenched in the sickly green glow of a solitary light bulb. The pipes that crisscrossed the ceiling above him never stopped dripping. The sound of water hitting the ground echoed endlessly, bouncing off the walls in a rhythm that felt like a cruel mockery of life.
It was there that reality struck the hardest.
He would sit and listen to the water’s incessant collision with the ground, and it would remind him that he was alone. Truly alone. The ones who had once spoken to him, who had filled the space with warmth and connection, were gone. No one was there anymore to talk to him the way they used to.
And so, after they left, and he started waiting before that doorway, he found himself beginning to hate the sound of water. The way it collided with the floor, dripping endlessly, was unbearable.
It wasn’t just noise. It was a reminder, cruel and unforgiving, of his isolation.
*
When the rainy season came in their world, he felt it creeping back.
The agitation.
The sound of rain against the roof, against the windows, tapping incessantly as if trying to invade his sanctuary—it unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite put into words. It wasn’t that he feared it. No, it wasn’t fear exactly. It was the memory of a world he wanted to leave behind.
And yet, the rain kept falling.
*
These past few days, his spirit had been better—too good, in fact, to the point where sleep eluded him. It felt as though a relentless train was barreling through his mind, each passing moment casting up flickering images like an old, grainy film reel. Even when he wrapped his arms tightly around himself, the midnight cold seeped into his limbs, leaving him trembling. Peaceful sleep only came when they were beside him.
During the day, he drifted through a haze of exhaustion, his thoughts sluggish and unfocused. He’d doze off in scattered intervals, his body unable to fully give in to rest. Each time he woke, his head throbbed with a splitting ache. He avoided sleep as much as he could, afraid that closing his senses might erase them. They were somewhere out there—away from him—and the idea of sleeping through their absence felt unbearable.
What if, when he woke, he realized it was all just a dream? That none of it was real? That no one shared this space with him, and he was only chasing after the ghost of a life his mind had conjured out of longing? The thought clawed at his chest. Fear became a rope wrapped around his neck, tightening its grip with every thought.
When the nights stretched long and sleepless, he’d stay awake, his gaze fixed on their sleeping figure whenever they were home. If he looked away, even for a moment, he might find himself pulled back to the dark doorway under that eerie green light, listening to the sound of water dripping.
Sleep wasn’t the only thing he gave up. He’d also stopped eating. The neatly portioned meat they left for him in the fridge remained untouched whenever they weren’t home. Eating alone felt hollow, meaningless. Without them there, sitting by his side, the thought of eating didn’t even cross his mind.
Their work had kept them busier than usual lately, and the number of nights they spent away was growing. During those hours, he’d sit and piece together sentences in his head, carefully arranging the words he wanted to say when they returned. Yet the moment he heard their steps at the threshold, the sight of their figure would dissolve all his resolve. The carefully constructed words crumbled into nothing.
Each time, he’d tell himself, next time.
He spent those nights curled up in their wardrobe, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, trying to quiet the ache in his chest. His longing for them was like a pulse—constant, insistent, unbearable. During the day, it was worse. The missing was maddening, a deep, gnawing pain he couldn’t soothe.
Sometimes he’d lay on the bed for just a few minutes, trying to will himself into calm. But every time, he’d jolt awake, trembling, his heart racing as he frantically searched the room for them. He’d rise, half-dazed, and head for the door, ready to leave, to find them. His hand would reach the doorknob before reality hit him again—they were away on business, busy with work.
He couldn’t disturb them.
His fingers slipped from the knob. He just had to wait. It would be better to wait until they came back.
He wiped the tears from his face, his chest ached from the sobs he couldn’t hold back. Dejected, he shuffled back to their bedroom, each step heavier than the last, and quietly squeezed himself into the wardrobe. The space was tight, familiar, and filled with the faint scent of them lingering in the air. As he wrapped one of their coats around himself, he couldn’t stop the realization from settling in his chest like a cold stone. He’d relied on them too much.
They were everything. A hundred thousand times better than anything else in his world. They could make the fear disappear, quiet the shadows in his mind, and lull him into the kind of sleep that didn’t leave him feeling hollow.
Why hadn’t they come back sooner? Did they truly not care about him anymore?
(Had he asked for too much?)
Negative thoughts crept in, slow and insidious, wrapping around him like a second skin. He pulled the coat tighter, trying to shield himself from the spiral. It didn’t quite fit. His frame was too broad, too large for something meant for their smaller body. But it carried their scent, soft and reassuring, and it reminded him of those evenings when their arms had wrapped around him, warm and grounding. He could almost feel their hands on his back, soothing him with gentle pats as he curled in closer to them, his large body folding in on itself just to fit inside their embrace.
Those moments were like magic. Their warmth could chip away at the perpetual coldness he’d brought with him from his world, the chill that clung to his skin no matter what he did. Maybe, just maybe, if they hugged him enough—if they held him long enough—he’d finally become part of this house, this life they shared. He’d become as inseparable from their world as the objects in the room, his presence as permanent and comforting as theirs was to him.
All he could do was sit there, missing them helplessly. Again.
He leaned his head against the wooden wall of the wardrobe, the faint creak of the panel filling the quiet. Above him, the hems of their hanging clothes swayed slightly, just out of reach, and the wardrobe door was cracked open, though it let in no light. The world beyond was as dark as the space he huddled in, as if it, too, were mourning their absence.
Suddenly, a deep, booming sound shook the air, and he flinched instinctively. A flash of white light followed, sharp and startling, illuminating the room for the briefest moment. His head jerked toward the small crack in the wardrobe door, his curiosity overtaking his unease. He peeked out, just in time to hear it—the unmistakable sound of water slamming against the eaves.
It began slowly at first, a gentle patter of droplets, one after another. But it quickly gained momentum, the rhythm growing relentless as rain poured down in earnest. His ears twitched at the sound.
(It had been another night like this. The rain had started softly, just as it did now, and he remembered them sitting cross-legged beside him on the floor. Their fingers moved in the air, making a downward motion to mimic the falling water. He’d leaned in eagerly, shuffling closer so he wouldn’t miss a single word.
Water drop down, they had said, their voice calm and steady, even as thunder rumbled loud and heavy in the sky.
Rain.
The word had been unfamiliar, but he’d captured it, tasting it on his tongue as if it were a rare treasure. He’d practiced it, repeating broken sounds that barely resembled the word, but they had laughed softly, their breath warm as they leaned in to nuzzle his head in praise.)
Another rumble. The sound reverberated through the walls, a deep, rolling vibration that lingered in his ears. A flash of white light followed, illuminating the dim room for the briefest of moments before plunging it back into darkness. He felt himself slipping, as if the storm had drawn him back to that old doorway.
He could see it in his mind. Himself, leaning limply against the doorframe, staring up at the faintly flickering bulb overhead. The light had been weak, barely cutting through the gloom, and he had sat there, waiting. Waiting for the door to creak open. Waiting for them to step through and bring light back into this shadowed world.
The darkness around him now mirrored that memory. His gaze lingered on it as he closed his eyes, the soft pitter-patter of rain filling the silence. It reminded him of water dripping through cracks in the ceiling, pooling cold and lifeless on the floor. It wasn’t comforting, but it was steady.
Steady enough to lull him to sleep.
*
When he woke again, the dimness had shifted. Pale light filtered in, faint at first, then stronger, stinging his skin and dragging him back into the present. Dawn had come.
His body felt frozen, stiff from the night spent curled into himself. His head throbbed faintly, dull and numbing. He sat there for what felt like forever, unmoving, staring at nothing, until the brightness outside began to pierce through his senses.
Then, a sound.
Faint at first, but growing steadily louder. A noise from outside. Footsteps. Familiar ones. They grew clearer, each step punctuated by the soft creak of the wooden floor as they approached.
It was them. He knew it before the door even opened. He had memorized the rhythm of their footsteps long ago, a sound etched into his mind like a permanent scar.
His head swirled with words, jumbled and heavy. The weight of his thoughts pressed down on him, suffocating in their intensity. Were they tired of him? He was annoying, wasn’t he? That’s why they had left. Maybe they’d gone outside that day to get away from him. Maybe this time, they wouldn’t come back.
“Why are you in there, Mr. Crawling?”
Their voice cut through his spiraling thoughts like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. He hadn’t even noticed the wardrobe door opening. Their shadow spilled over him, a shield from the harsh daylight, and he could see the faint outline of their figure in front of him.
Their coat was damp, rainwater clinging to the fabric and mingling with the scent that was unmistakably theirs. It wrapped around them like a haze, soft and calming, yet distant, like they’d brought a piece of the storm in with them.
He turned his face away quickly, as if their presence might drag his ugly, spiraling thoughts into the open for them to see. His hands gripped the coat tighter around himself, his decayed heart twisting in his chest.
“..…”
They tilted their head slightly, their eyes narrowing as they studied him. Normally, he’d be scrambling out of the wardrobe by now, clambering to their side, chirping excitedly to welcome them back. But now he was still, unnervingly so.
“you alright?”
Their voice was soft, careful. Instead of reaching out to ruffle his hair as they normally would, they crouched down to his level, keeping their distance. Something was off. They could see it in the way he held himself, in the way he avoided their gaze. They knew better than to push, not when he was like this.
“you hurt?”
Did he hurt himself? Their thoughts raced, cataloging every possibility. Had he accidentally touched something sharp or hot? The stove had been off when they checked earlier, so it couldn’t have been a burn. But maybe it was the knives?
They frowned at the memory of him watching them cook, his intense gaze fixed on the knife in their hand. He’d announced, quite loudly, that he wanted to help, as if the mere sight of them slicing vegetables had ignited some childlike curiosity. But the knives were all neatly racked when they came home, everything in its usual place. It couldn’t have been that.
Some sharp corner, then? A hidden edge they’d missed?
Their thoughts paused, and something clicked. They rubbed a hand down their face with a muted sigh. How could they have forgotten? They’d hit him in the head with a crowbar once—not out of malice, but back when things were... complicated. And yet, the injury had healed in minutes. He wasn’t human. Not in the way they were. The realization left them feeling oddly foolish for worrying about mundane dangers.
The sigh, however, seemed to startle him. His frame stiffened noticeably, his body coiling like a spring. Before they could react, he jerked his head up sharply to look at them.
It was abrupt, unnerving even. His long black hair hung down, nearly veiling his entire face, and his bluish, translucent skin gave him the eerie look of something pulled straight out of a horror film. The way his neck twisted so sharply, almost a full 180 degrees, didn’t help.
They didn’t flinch. Not anymore. The sight was one they had grown used to. If anything, they were more surprised by the suddenness of his movement than his ghostly appearance. They opened their mouth to speak, but the words never came.
He moved faster than they could blink, bolting toward them like a force of nature. Long limbs wrapped around their frame with startling strength as they both tumbled to the ground.
The impact wasn’t particularly painful, but the sheer force of his embrace knocked the breath from their lungs for a moment. When their vision cleared, they found themselves tangled in a mess of black hair, gangly arms, and the cool, faintly damp sensation of his skin pressed against theirs.
They exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling while a stray lock of his hair tickled their cheek. This was oddly familiar.
A wry thought crossed their mind as they lay there, pinned under him. Maybe they should buy a carpet. With how often he tackled them to the floor in these bone-crushing hugs, the cold, hard ground was starting to feel like a second bed. It wasn’t that it hurt. His enthusiasm outweighed any discomfort, but they couldn’t help wondering if their skull would eventually develop a permanent dent at this rate.
Perhaps a carpet in every room would be a wise investment. It was certainly easier than trying to explain to him that he needed to stop. The mental image of him, big and ungainly, sniffling pitifully if they ever pushed him away was enough to make their head ache preemptively.
They sighed again.
Their roommate needed careful handling, that much was clear. Even if he was nearly twice their size, he still clung to them like a child clutching their favorite blanket. And as inconvenient as it could be, they didn’t have it in them to deny him.
In the brief pause they took to think, his mind raced with anxious thoughts. Why weren’t they saying anything? Had he hurt them when he tackled them to the floor? Had he annoyed them this time? But... he’d always done this, hadn’t he? Ever since he followed them back to this place, he’d clung to them like this, and they’d never said a word to stop him. So why—
“Mr. Crawling?”
Their voice broke through the storm of his worries.
He snapped his head up, and realized with a jolt what he’d been doing. His face had been pressed into the front of their coat like he was trying to merge himself with them, his arms wound so tightly around their frame that, with just a little more pressure, he might have left bruises.
“you alright?”
Their tone was gentle, patient—like they were talking to someone lost and scared, someone who needed a moment to make sense of things. They didn’t try to push him away or struggle against the vice grip of his arms. They knew he wasn’t trying to hurt them.
He frantically loosened his hold, though his arms still lingered loosely around them. They remained still, neither encouraging him nor pulling away. Instead, they slowly lifted a hand and touched his face.
The moment their palm met his cheek, he froze. Every tense muscle in his body seemed to go still.
They said nothing, their usual neutral expression intact as they looked up at him. Yet their hand was warm and dry, moving with slow care as it caressed his face. He noticed the faint scent of rain clinging to their fingertips. It stirred a memory of the long night he had spent waiting for them, the rain pounding outside, the ache of emptiness inside.
A lump rose in his throat. He felt a sudden pang of sadness, a strange sense of grievance that he couldn’t put into words.
“you go out long time,” he mumbled, closing the small gap between them and burying his face into their shoulder. His voice was muffled, thick with emotion. “me sad.”
Ah. So that was it.
They blinked at the words, their hand hovering midair where his face had been before he pressed into them. Slowly, they lowered it, their fingers smoothing over the strands of his long black hair.
“sorry,” they murmured, nuzzling their cheek lightly against the side of his head. Their voice was soft, warm, like butter melting over toast. “me here. me stay with you.”
A soft, almost squeaky sound escaped him in response, a small noise of relief as he nestled further into their neck. The scent of their skin was clearer there, grounding him, and he could feel the weight of his worries melting like rain pooling into the earth.
He had missed them. So, so much.
They ran their fingers through his hair absentmindedly, their mind wandering. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. They would need to go out again—staying home all the time wasn’t feasible. But bringing him along everywhere wasn’t a realistic option either.
Leaving him alone seemed to hurt him too deeply, though. What could they do?
As they idly combed through his hair, a thought sparked, like a light bulb flickering to life in their mind.
Maybe, there was a solution.
*
A few days later, they called him over to where they were sitting cross-legged on the floor. From the bag they had brought home earlier that evening, they pulled out an object.
It was a doll. They placed it into his hands. “my object,” they tapped the doll lightly, then pointed to him. “your object.”
His head tilted down as he stared at the small object in his hands. It was humanoid in shape, its button eyes glinting faintly under the light. Its hair was made from twisted strands of fabric, and it wore a long, white coat with a hood, unmistakably reminiscent of what they always wore.
He examined it intently, turning it over in his hands. Once. Twice. Then his gaze shifted back to them, his mouth opened slightly in wonder. He repeated the motion a few times, looking at the doll, then at them, as though confirming what he saw.
It looked just like them.
“you give your object?” he said quietly, his voice cautious.
They nodded.
“me give you,” they said simply, the words as steady as their hand when they gestured to him.
For a moment, he didn’t react. Then, his face stretched into a wide, unnatural smile. It was the kind of grin that turned his mouth into an endless black void, void of teeth or any human resemblance. Yet, despite its eerie appearance, it didn’t feel threatening. Strangely, they could almost imagine delicate flowers blooming around him, softening the effect entirely.
“grateful! grateful!” he exclaimed, his voice bursting with pure joy.
Before they could respond, he lunged forward, tackling them to the floor with a force that knocked the air from their lungs. This time, the doll was clutched tightly in his grip, its button eyes staring blankly as it was caught in the collision.
“Oof,” they muttered softly, wincing as their head made contact with the new carpet beneath them.
At least the carpet was getting some use, they thought faintly. Even if it wasn’t exactly the intended kind.
*
A few more days passed, and rain came while they were away on business. The sound of water pounding against the roof filled the house as he retreated to his usual spot inside the wardrobe.
He clutched the doll tightly to his chest, holding onto it as though it were a lifeline. The rain outside didn’t seem as frightening now. With the doll in his hands— their object—it felt like a piece of them was there with him, keeping him company.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he managed to doze off to the rhythm of the rain, its steady drumming lulling him into a rare, peaceful sleep. When the rain finally stopped, he woke up slowly, his body still curled around the small doll. For once, he hadn’t jolted awake, heart pounding, searching for them in a panic.
Somehow, it felt like they had kept their promise to stay with him, even when they weren’t there.
*
And so, no matter how often the skies opened up and poured relentlessly in their absence, they would always return to the sight of a cheerful Mr. Crawling.
*
Time passed, as time does, and the rain came again.
This time, it was late at night, the kind of hour where the world felt like it was holding its breath. The two of them lay side by side in the quiet, close enough that he could hear their steady heartbeat. Outside, the rain drummed a rhythmic melody against the roof, a soft patter that occasionally gave way to distant rolls of thunder.
The storm seemed to creep closer, and he shifted slightly, his broad frame tensing as the thunder grumbled on the horizon. But before the unease could take root, he felt the warmth of their hand gently patting his head. The touch was slow and soothing.
“rest together,” they murmured, their voice thick with sleep. Those simple words, spoken in the soft stillness, cut through the lingering darkness in his mind, like a warm light spilling through a crack in a door.
He didn’t respond with words, only nuzzling closer to them. They seemed to understand, wrapping their arms around his broad back with a familiarity that had become second nature. Their hands moved in slow, circular motions, tracing calming patterns over his back. Then they spoke again, their voice clearer this time, a soothing sound that reminded him of wind chimes swaying gently in the breeze.
“Go to sleep,” they said softly, almost absently. “I’ll stay home with you tomorrow.”
They didn’t even seem to realize they’d said it in their own language, their thoughts clouded by sleep. Slowly, their breathing evened out, soft and steady. Their hand, still resting on his back, began to falter in its movements. It stilled for longer intervals until it finally slipped away completely, resting limply at their side.
He caught it before it could fall too far, holding their hand carefully in his own. He traced their fingers, one by one, as though memorizing their shape. His touch was feather-light, his broad thumb brushing over their knuckles in a deliberate rhythm. Slowly, his own tension began to fade.
The doll sat silently on the table next to the bed, its button eyes facing the window. Outside, the rain continued to fall, its pattering a gentle backdrop. But tonight, the sound didn’t bring the usual restlessness. Tonight, the world felt quieter, safer.
For once, it wasn’t a sleepless night.