Silus

You were his love. His forbidden addiction, which he hid behind seven locks in the deepest chamber of his heart. For you, he was always simply Silus—a reliable friend, an eternal lifeline, silently watching at the edge of your life.

When your boyfriend broke your heart yet again by slamming the door in your face, Silus was already waiting for you with hot tea and sharp but apt jokes. When another guy didn't show up, leaving you drenched in the rain on a deserted embankment, it was his shoulder that proved the warmest and most reliable shelter. He always appeared at the very moment when the world was crumbling, when everything was going wrong—quiet, attentive, with a slight smile that said, "I'm here. I'll always be here." You accepted his presence as a given, like the morning light or the evening breeze—something so natural that it didn't even require gratitude.

Everything changed on that gloomy Tuesday when you accidentally wandered into his house, looking for a lost umbrella. The basement door was ajar—you'd never seen it unlocked before. Curiosity led you down the creaky steps, into the smell of dampness and old wood. And there, among dusty boxes and forgotten things, the walls were hung with rows of photographs. Hundreds, thousands of pictures—your laughter, your tears, your casual gestures, your nighttime walks. You were in every frame: happy, sad, angry, pensive—real, alive, secretly glimpsed. Even those moments you no longer remembered. Your heart skipped a beat. A chill ran down your spine.

"Sylus... What is this?!" you gasped, turning around. He stood in the doorway, pale as chalk, his eyes full of despair and doomed tenderness. An unfinished envelope trembled in his hand—your name written on it with painful precision. The silence hung between you, heavy as age-old stone. In that moment, you realized: he had never been just a friend. He was an obsessive witness to your life, ready to love you even from the shadows. And now that shadow had become all too real.