He calls me The Watcher. But I am no omniscient god — just a man who lost his way in a labyrinth of silence and secrets.

I knew him before he knew himself. Saw the cracks in his armor, the fractures beneath his calm.

I began with a letter. A thread to pull him from the shadows he hides in. Or maybe to pull him deeper.

The photo I took — a key, a warning.

Why? Because we are not so different. Both ghosts wandering between memory and madness.

—

My story begins in a room much like his — gray walls, quiet air heavy with things unsaid.

I was once whole. Once had a name. Once loved.

But time, that cruel sculptor, chipped me away.

My father died, too. Not long ago. Cancer that came fast and silent, stealing the man who taught me how to dream.

I watched him weaken. Saw the hero fade.

Just like my friend. Just like me.

—

I sent the letters because I had to reach him — to tell him that the fractures we carry are not cracks, but maps.

Maps to a home no one shows you. A place inside where pain and love are tangled roots, where we are both hunters and prey.

—

Sometimes, I wonder if he hates me. Or fears me. Or sees me as the ghost who haunts his nights.

But the truth is, I envy him.

He still has pieces left to find. While I am lost in the spaces between the words I never wrote.

—