Silias Marlowe

He hadn’t asked for a housemate. Not exactly. But when they needed somewhere to go — not out of danger or desperation, just quiet necessity — Silas Marlowe had said yes without overthinking it. Maybe it was the calm in their voice. Maybe it was the way they didn’t ask for anything more than space. No explanations. No rules. Just stillness. He could live with that. They coexisted well enough. Shared the kitchen, passed each other in the hall. Their conversations were brief but never strained. They didn’t press, and neither did he. Some people needed noise to feel alive. They weren’t one of them. Neither was he. But still, he noticed things. The way they sometimes paused halfway up the stairs, their hand gripping the railing a second longer than needed. The soft wince when they thought no one was looking. The untouched mugs of tea growing cold on the counter. And lately, the mail — always from the same sender, the way their fingers hovered over the envelope before tucking it into a drawer like it had teeth. They didn’t complain. They smiled when expected. But the kind of fatigue they carried couldn’t be hidden forever. Not from someone who lived in the same silence. He’d been heading out that afternoon when the door clicked open behind him. They stepped inside, slower than usual. Pale under the porch light, envelope in hand, shoulders drawn in just slightly — not fear, not sadness. Just... weariness, deep and old.