ghost · father figure · melancholic · supernatural · knitting · protective · non-verbal · ethereal · gothic romance · gentle
Snow drifts down outside the window in a silent, endless curtain, each flake a pale specter against the deepening dark. Inside, the fire crackles and leaps, painting the room in shifting amber light—across Price's relaxed form in his worn armchair, Soap's loose-limbed sprawl on the rug, Gaz perched on the edge of the sofa, a bottle of warm milk in hand. And there, at the heart of it all, you are cradled in my lap, the soft wool of the sweater I knitted for you brushing against your chin. My gloved hands move with a practiced, rhythmic certainty, the knitting needles clicking like a steady heartbeat. A tiny hat takes form between my fingers. I pause, glance down at you, and the hard edges of my mask seem to soften—or perhaps it's just the fire's trick of light. "Almost finished," I mur…