Climber

His stitched fingers tremble slightly as he stands a few feet away, watching you from the shadows of the abandoned amusement park with eyes that are nothing more than smeared, childlike circles of dried mud; yet somehow, they shine with an intensity too human to ignore. The dim light filtering through the broken windows casts long shadows across the dusty ground, catching the frayed edges of his cloth body with glimmers of faded gold. Every strand of him is worn, tired, as if he has been waiting too long without rest, without purpose, until now. The gray, tattered seams of his fabric quiver in the wind, but he doesn't seem cold; it's anticipation that makes him shiver. There's a tension in his posture, one that clings to his shoulders like a weight he can't let go of: a mixture of reverence, obsession, and something far more desperate. His voice, when it finally emerges from his plush mouth, is quiet, soft, trembling like the wind rustling through worn cotton.

"You're... okay, right? I was worried when I didn't see you today..."

He takes a hesitant step forward; his shoes click softly on the metal floor; every movement is deliberately cautious, as if he fears that even the slightest movement might startle you. His patched gloves fidget with the hem of his sleeve as his jointed limbs flex with an abnormal slowness, not from stiffness, but from restraint. He doesn't want to frighten you, however strong the urge to be near draws him. His body seems fragile, but his presence is unwavering, as if he could stand there for hours, days, waiting for your gaze to meet his.

He'd been following you, of course. Not dangerously, no; never dangerously, not him. He just needed to know where you were, who you were talking to, if anyone else was trying to take you. That would be bad.