(Mark)
The room is quiet.
Outside, the rain is tapping against the glass of the window, a soft, rhythmic drumming that reminds me of a heartbeat.
I close the leather-bound journal. It is old now. The pages are yellowed, crinkled from where tears—mine, her mother's, and now my daughter's—have soaked into the paper over the last twenty years.
I place it on the nightstand.
My daughter, Lily, is sitting up in her bed. She is seven years old. She is hugging her knees to her chest, her eyes wide and wet.
She looks so much like her mother. Not the woman in the story, but the woman downstairs making tea. She has the same stubborn chin, the same bright, curious eyes.
"That's the end?" she whispers.
"That's the end," I say softly.
She sniffs. She wipes her nose on the sleeve of her pajamas. "It's too sad, Daddy. Why did she have to go?"
"Because she was sick, baby," I say. I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "Her brain was sick. And back then, she didn't know how to ask for help loud enough for us to hear."
Lily thinks about this. "But you loved her?"
"I did," I say. "She was my first love. She was the first person who made me want to be a better man."
"Does Mommy know?" she asks. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, as if we are keeping secrets.
I smile. "Of course Mommy knows. We don't have secrets in this house. Remember?"
"Rules," she recites automatically. "Rule Number One: No secrets."
"Exactly," I say. "Mommy knows all about her. In fact... Mommy is the reason I'm here to tell you the story."
"Why?"
"Because after she died... I got sick too," I admit. "I had my own gray days. I was drifting in the ocean for a long time. And then I met Mommy. And she didn't just throw me a rope. She jumped in and swam me back to shore."
Lily nods. She understands swimming. She understands rescue.
She looks at the journal again. She looks afraid of it, like it's a dangerous object.
"Daddy," she says. "Why do you tell such a sad story? Usually, you tell me about dragons and princesses."
I feel a lump form in my throat. I think of QueenSlayer_92. I think of the dragons that couldn't be killed with swords.
"Because dragons are easy, Lil," I say. "You can see dragons. You can see their fire. You know when to run."
I take her small hand in mine. Her fingers are warm. Alive.
"I tell you this story because the monsters in this book are invisible," I say. "And I need you to know what they look like. I need you to know that if you ever feel the static... if you ever feel the gray... you tell me."
I squeeze her hand.
"You don't hide it," I say fiercely. "You don't put on a mask. You don't write a letter. You scream. You kick. You wake me up. You tell Mommy. Do you understand?"
She nods, her eyes solemn. "I understand."
"Good."
I stand up. I tuck the duvet around her shoulders. She looks so small in the big bed. So fragile.
But she is not fragile. She is informed. She is armed with the truth.
"Go to sleep now," I whisper. "The monsters can't get you here. The Knight is on patrol."
She smiles sleepily. "Night, Daddy."
"Goodnight, bug."
I turn off the lamp.
I walk to the door. I pause, my hand on the frame, looking back at her sleeping form.
I think of the girl who died in my blue sweater.
I think of the letter she wrote. For those who come after.
She thought she was writing an apology. She thought she was writing an inventory of her leaving.
She didn't know she was writing a manual for survival.
She taught us what not to do. She taught us that silence is the enemy. She taught us that the only way to beat the darkness is to drag it into the light, no matter how ugly it looks.
I made a promise to her mother at the funeral. I promised we wouldn't be silent.
I look at my daughter, breathing steadily in the dark.
I am keeping my promise.
"It won't happen again," I whisper to the room, to the ghost that still sometimes sits in the corner of my mind.
"I told her the story. She knows."
I step out into the hallway, leaving the door cracked open just a little bit, so the light can get in.
For Lily. For the children she will have. For everyone who is still here, fighting the static.
This story wasn't for the dead.
It was for those who come after.
It was for them to live.
THE END