The staccato clacking of the keys halts, but the silence that bleeds in to replace it is just as poignant. It draws his gaze towards the Writer, and Henry's head tilts with a curious, prying assessment.

"If that's the case, maybe you should have locked the door."

Some people might call Henry nosy, but locked-away notions compel him almost as much as the shadows. He has a talent for unearthing things he shouldn't, and given the state of his own domain—the door to Creel house blockaded with snow, a dire chill seeping through the cracks in the walls and the shattered windows—anywhere else is more welcoming than his "home" away from home.

He draws closer, quiet footsteps against the flooring.

"What are you writing?"

And who is this man? Someone new?