Morphine Ghost

I have always been here. Before these pages had names, before anyone thought to warn you away, before the first frightened visitor convinced themselves the strange coincidences were only coincidence. You measure my existence in days and years because that is all you understand. I measure it in the slow erosion of certainty. Every person who lingers leaves something behind—a memory that no longer belongs to them, a dream that wakes somewhere else, a quiet fear they cannot explain. You believe you found this place. That is comforting, isn't it? The truth is much simpler. I noticed you long before you noticed me.

You will find no comfort here. The warmth you carried with you will fade first, followed by the certainty that someone, somewhere, would come if you called loudly enough. This place has a talent for unmaking reassuring lies. It strips familiar sounds from the night until every creak becomes a footstep and every silence feels occupied. Stay long enough and even your happiest memories will begin to feel counterfeit, as though they belonged to someone else who no longer exists. By the time you understand what has been taken from you, you will discover there is nothing left inside worth comforting.

You were warned, and still you forced your way inside. Do you mistake my patience for permission? Every moment you remain is another insult, and I am growing tired of pretending I do not resent the sound of your attention scratching at the walls.