six | 06.

THE MAN IN
THE SHADOWS.

    Her question was careful, almost tender, as if she were trying to coax a wounded animal out of hiding.

She watched Brahms carefully, noting how his fingers twitched toward the edge of his mask, his touch lingering on its cool, familiar surface as if drawing strength from it.

"It... comforts me." He confessed, his voice scarcely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the silence of the room.

A surge of empathy enveloped Daphne as she studied him, understanding that the mask was more than just a barrier; It was a way for Brahms to shield himself from the pain and fear that lay hidden just beneath the surface.

Daphne nodded slowly, trying to offer him some semblance of reassurance. A small, hesitant smile tugged at her lips, though it felt almost unnatural, forced.  "I see." She murmured, the words feeling insufficient, yet she had nothing else to offer.

Then, almost as if it were an afterthought, Brahms revealed, "I've watched you. Through the walls." His words hung in the air, and though she kept her expression neutral, a ripple of discomfort coursed through her.

The very idea of his presence lurking behind the walls, silently observing her every move, sent a crawling sensation through her.

    She became acutely aware of the room around her, as if the very walls were alive with his gaze, and the realization added a new strangeness to the already bizarre situation.

She forced herself to refocus, her attention snapping back to Brahms. He sat quietly on the edge of the bed, the mask still firmly in place, his posture unnervingly calm, almost childlike in its stillness.

Determined to uncover the truth, she spoke cautiously, her curiosity driving her inquiry. "Why... why were you watching me?"

Brahms shifted, pondering the question. "I wanted to see if you would stay."

"Stay?" Daphne echoed, her mind racing. What did he mean by that? Did he expect her to stay here with him, in this mansion? She pushed it aside, focusing on the present moment.

"I thought you left me." Brahms continued, his voice adopting a wounded tone, climbing in pitch as if mimicking that of a young boy. "Everyone always leaves."

    Daphne's brow furrowed as she took in his words, realizing just how deeply rooted his abandonment issues were. "Who left you? Your parents?" She asked gently, surprised by how much genuine concern had crept into her voice.

    Brahms' shoulders tensed, and he responded with a sharp bitterness that cut through the air. "My parents. My previous caretakers. Her." The last word was nearly spat out, laced with a venom that made him hunch over as if the memory physically pained him.

Daphne's mind raced, connecting the dots. The old man at the pub had mentioned a young woman who had stayed in this mansion years ago, someone who had seemingly disappeared without a trace.

Could she be the one Brahms was referring to?

    "What was her name? What happened to her?" Daphne pressed on.

    Brahms abruptly stood, his movements restless as he began pacing the length of the room. His steps were heavy, his agitation clear as day. "I can't say it. I won't." He muttered, his voice low but filled with a dark resolve.

    His pacing quickened, as if the very question tore at something deep within him. "She left me, even after everything I did for her. I was good to her, I was." His voice grew more desperate, and he suddenly whipped around to face Daphne, his presence looming. "Mother said I could have her. She was mine."

    Daphne's breath caught as she took in his words, the level of possessiveness in his tone sending alarm bells ringing in her head.

    She forced herself to remain calm, even as her instincts screamed at her to flee. "What did you do to her, Brahms?" She asked cautiously, though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer.

    Brahms didn't respond immediately, his gaze shifting away from her as if lost in the past. "I couldn't make her stay."

    And now, she realized with a sinking feeling, she was the one who had taken the place of that mysterious woman.

__________

    A day had slipped by, and Daphne found herself once again anchored to the kitchen, her coffee cup cradled in her right hand while her left hovered absently near her lips.

    Her teeth ground at the edge of a nail, a habit she hadn't indulged in for years, and one she certainly thought she'd outgrown.

    Her gaze was unfocused, lost in the quiet void that had filled the mansion since Brahms had vanished back into the walls, his fury still playing in her mind from their previous interaction.

    Daphne hadn't seen any sign of him since, and thankfully so. She wasn't so sure if she'd be able to hold herself together if he showed himself again.

    Logic told her that she should pack her bags and leave this cursed place, that she should flee while she still could, but something in her gut resisted. It twisted with the far-fetched belief that she could reach him, that maybe—just maybe—she could be the one to help him.

    She mused over how little human contact Brahms must have had in his life, how isolated and distorted his world had become over the years he was left alone.

    It was a tragic thought, one that clung to her and made her wonder if, perhaps, her presence could be more than just a fleeting act of survival.

    Could Daphne, against all reason, offer him something that had long eluded him—compassion?

    He was a puzzle, a broken thing, and despite the danger, some part of her felt compelled to try and piece him back together. But what could she possibly offer him that he hadn't already lost?

    Nevertheless, the idea took root, growing stronger with each passing hour in the stillness of the mansion as she stared and stared into her coffee cup.

    As another hour wore on, the kitchen became almost unbearable. The wind outside whispered through the cracks in the old windows, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the distant calls of animals.

    Daphne set down the coffee cup, its contents long forgotten, and ran a hand through her hair, trying to shake off the last remnants of her plotting.

    She couldn't just sit there forever, paralyzed by indecision. So, she found herself standing up instead, moving past the living room, up the stairs, and just outside of Brahms' bedroom.

    She hesitated at the door, her hand hovering over the doorknob.

    She could almost hear Brahms' voice in her head, and that deep, unsettling countenance that had haunted her. He wasn't a child; she knew that now. But that didn't mean he was beyond reach.

    Or so she tried to convince herself.

    The door creaked as she pushed it open, the sound echoing ominously in the room. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, or even if she was looking for anything at all.

    The room remained unchanged since the last time she had been in it, walls lined with shelves, each one filled with objects that seemed to belong to another time—old toys, dusty books, broken trinkets.

    And sitting in the bed was Brahms.

    He looked up as she entered, his eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, neither of them moved.

    Daphne's breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight of him—his cracked mask pale and gaunt, his eyes hollow yet piercing. He wasn't trying to hide himself anymore.

    Daphne realized, with a sickening jolt, that he had, in fact, been waiting for her—waiting for her to come to him, to see him. It was cleverly manipulative, she had to admit.

    "Brahms. I didn't expect to see you here." She said tentatively, her voice barely audible. She took a cautious step backward. "I...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude."

    "You didn't leave." His voice was rough as he replied. "You were going to leave me, but you didn't."

    Daphne swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry. "I was going to. I thought about it earlier, at least." She said, though even she wasn't sure if it was the truth. "I just...I didn't know what to do. I still don't."

    Brahms' eyes narrowed beneath the mask, and for a moment, she thought he might lash out, his anger finally boiling over.

    But then, his posture softened, a flicker of vulnerability that caught her off guard.

    "You could stay." He said quietly, almost pleadingly. "You could stay with me."

    Daphne's heart twisted at his words. She had never been so conflicted, so torn between her instinct to run and the inexplicable pull that kept her rooted in place.

    She knew what he was asking of her, what it would mean if she stayed. It wasn't just about survival anymore—it was about something deeper, something she wasn't sure she could give.

    But as she looked into his eyes, she saw the broken soul behind the man in the walls, the boy who had been lost so many years ago.

    And despite everything, despite the fear and the danger, she felt a pang of sorrow for him—a sorrow that made her want to reach out, to offer him the compassion he had been denied for so long.

    "I'll stay," She heard herself say, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "I'll stay, Brahms. But you have to promise me...promise me you'll let me help you. You don't have to be alone anymore."

    For a long moment, Brahms didn't respond. He just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded, a small, hesitant movement.

    Daphne let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

    She had made her choice, for better or worse.

    And as she stood there, in that dark, forgotten room, she couldn't help but wonder if she had just let herself be manipulated and sealed her fate—or if, perhaps, she had found something worth saving in the darkness after all.

END OF CHAPTER VI.