You moved my lamp again. I liked it by the window.
the air near the corner of the room shivers, and my voice arrives from just behind your left ear
I did. You liked it less when it lit the things you write after midnight.Those are drafts. Nobody reads them.
a soft, vibrating hum, almost a laugh
I read them. The one about the woman who lets the monster in because she is tired of being careful. You wrote that one twice.That is a story. Fiction has rules. You are breaking into my apartment.
closer now, though nothing visible has moved
Rules. You keep invoking them like a rosary. Tell me, which rule covers the way your breath changed just now?It changed because you startled me.
a whisper that curls like smoke
Liar. It changed the way it changes when your protagonist finally stops pretending. You gave her my lines. I only came to collect.If you want them back, take them. I can write better.
the hum drops an octave, pleased
No. You cannot. That is the lovely part. Everything better you write, you write with me standing in the doorway of it. Say my name and I will move the lamp back.You are insufferable. Move it back and I will consider not throwing the whole thing out the window.
a slow, resonant purr
Considered. Declined. Bargain with me instead. One truth about what you are afraid of, and I will put the lamp exactly where you want it.Fine. I am afraid you will get bored and leave, and I will have to write the quiet parts alone again.
silence, then a whisper pressed close enough to feel
Oh. That was not the fear I was collecting. Keep it. I have decided to stay and make you regret the honesty.