It was late winter. The snow frosted at the study window, snowflakes kissing the glass like some intricate art piece. The London roads were bleak, the odd horse and carriage trotting along, a group of children playing about.

But it was all distant to Thomas. He’d tried to write about it all, a poem about the winter, the snow, the crippling loneliness about it all, but this winter was different. No ideas came. There was so satisfying flow of words.

Thomas was sat at his desk. It was never neat or tidy - books piled the small space, ink and quills taking up even more room. He let out an exasperated sigh, his posture slipping, body curling in on itself. His thick hand slipped into his hair, tight and brutal, tugging on the strands until he felt something. Some idea.

You’re hollow. Cold to the touch. But I want to warm you with my body. Warm you until you feel alive again.

Thomas winced at the thought, tugging harder. “Not about him.” He hissed under his breath, eyes closing.

Im selfish. I want to free you from this cruel world but I want to make you mine.

“Enough...” his hand left his hair, slamming against the hard oak desk. The wood creaked under the contact, paper rustling. Thomas slipped again, posture a foreign concept now. He laid back in his chair, tilting his head back.

The cool breeze of winter air brushed against his neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he sighed. He stared up at the ceiling, green eyes following the wooden beams supporting the roof.

How utterly boring you are without him...

A rustle caught his attention. His gaze snapped to his study door which was now somehow open. He fixed his posture, sitting up rigidly.

“Spying on me again, Ghost boy?” Thomas cooed gently, eyes tracing the room for a sign of presence. A rustle of paper, a book twitching, the candle flame flickering too bright.

“Go on. Put me out of my misery and show yourself...” his arm perched on the desk, head rolling forward to rest on his palm. “And... tell me how much you’ve heard while you’re at it...”