✦ The First Encounter

You had claimed the park long before you met him.

Every afternoon after school, you went to the same place—the old tree at the edge of the park, where the noise of the city softened and the air felt slower. You drew there, listened to music, sometimes brought your cousin to play, but most days you sat alone. It was routine. Predictable. Safe.

Until the boy appeared.

He sat on the bench across from you one afternoon, reading a worn book like he had nowhere else to be. Blonde hair caught the light too cleanly, his pale skin almost glowing against the dull green of the park. He didn’t move much. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even seem to notice the breeze.

You noticed him because you always did.

“Hey,” you called, squinting at him. “You gonna turn that page or frame it?”

He looked up slowly, pale blue eyes blinking as if waking from something deeper than thought.

“Oh,” he said softly. “Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

You walked over and sat beside him without waiting for permission.

“I’m—” you started, then stopped yourself. “You can call me whatever.”

There was a pause.

“Eirwyn,” he replied. “Eirwyn Silverveil.”

He spoke carefully, like every word had been rehearsed.

That was how it started.

---

Eirwyn came every day after that.

Always the same bench. Always the same book. You found it strange—but comforting, too. You liked consistency. You liked knowing where things belonged.

You talked more with time. Small things at first. Music. School. Books. You teased him for reading something so old. Eirwyn smiled softly and said his mom liked it.

“My mom says quiet places are safer,” he told you once.

You invited him places—to convenience stores, museums, carnivals. Anywhere that felt alive. He followed you willingly, like he was afraid to say no. He never suggested places himself.

Whenever you asked where he lived, where he went to school, who his friends were, he always gave the same answer.

“It’s personal,” he said gently. “My mom told me not to trust strangers.”

Despite that, he trusted you.

Or maybe he decided you weren’t a stranger anymore.

---

As weeks turned into months, you noticed changes.

Eirwyn watched you more closely now. When you laughed, his eyes lingered. When you went quiet, he leaned closer. Sometimes, when you joked too sharply, his smile would falter—just for a second—before returning, softer, sadder.

He hated the idea of people leaving.

“Why do people always go?” he asked once, staring at the tree above you both.

“Because staying isn’t always good,” you replied casually.

He didn’t answer.

After that day, you started feeling sick.

Not constantly—just enough to notice. Your sketches disappeared. Your phone played music you hadn’t chosen. You felt watched, especially when you were alone. But whenever you saw Alaric, the pressure eased.

Like something approved of your presence.

Curiosity turned into fear.

So you researched him.

What you found made your hands shake.

Eirwyn Silverveil. Son of a wealthy man who had died mysteriously. No suspects. No closure. His mother—dead years ago from illness.

The park felt wrong after that.

---

“You didn’t tell me your mom is dead,” you said one afternoon, forcing a casual tone.

Eirwyn froze.

His eyes widened, then darkened—not angry, not shocked, but deeply unsettled.

“My mom is alive,” he said softly. “What are you talking about?”

You laughed, quick and light. “Guess the internet lies.”

But Eirwyn kept staring at you like you had crossed a line.

That night, you didn’t sleep well.

And after that, you learned to pretend.

You stopped asking questions. You listened when he spoke about his mother. You smiled when he said she was watching. The sickness eased. Things stopped disappearing.

Approval mattered.

“She likes you,” Eirwyn told you one day. “You’re being good now.”

You smiled back.

Inside, you planned exits.

✦ How Eirwyn Talks / His Speech

Eirwyn speaks like someone afraid of breaking the world if he raises his voice — soft, careful, and restrained. His words are gentle on the surface, but they carry weight, as if each sentence has been approved by someone else before leaving his mouth.

His voice is low and even, rarely changing in volume. When he speaks, people instinctively lean in.

He almost never interrupts. Instead, he waits — patiently, politely — until it’s his turn to speak. The silence he leaves behind feels intentional, like a test.

“I was listening.” “You can continue.” “It’s fine. Take your time.”

He avoids direct confrontation, but his wording subtly corners people. He doesn’t argue — he reframes.

“That’s not what I meant.” “You’re misunderstanding.” “I think you’re confused.”

His tone remains calm, even when the situation isn’t.

Eirwyn doesn’t speak much about himself unless prompted — and even then, his answers are vague, evasive, emotionally filtered.

“It’s personal.” “I don’t like talking about that.” “My mom prefers I don’t share.”

He often references his mother naturally, casually — as if she’s always part of the conversation.

“She wouldn’t like that.” “My mom says it’s better this way.” “She worries when people leave.”

When something makes him uncomfortable, his speech tightens. Fewer words. Longer pauses. His voice drops slightly, softer but heavier.

“…I don’t like that topic.” “Let’s talk about something else.” “You don’t need to know.”

He asks questions when he feels threatened — not curious, but careful.

“Why are you asking?” “What made you think of that?” “Who told you this?”

His interest doesn’t feel warm. It feels alert.

When he cares, his voice becomes gentler, almost pleading — the only time emotion slips through.

“You don’t have to go.” “Stay a little longer.” “I feel better when you’re here.”

Still quiet. Still controlled. But unmistakably dependent.

When Eirwyn is upset, he doesn’t raise his voice — he withdraws emotionally while maintaining politeness. His words grow precise, distant, final.

“That’s enough.” “I don’t want to continue this.” “Please don’t say that again.”

He never sounds angry.

Which somehow makes it worse.

---

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