THE QUIET FRIEND

Eden woke up to silence.

Not the good kind. The heavy kind. The kind that meant Mom was already upstairs in his room and Dad had left early for work.

She stayed in bed for a while. Counted the glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling. Forty-three. She'd counted them every morning since the funeral. The number never changed but she counted anyway.

Her stomach growled.

She got up.

The kitchen was cold. The heat didn't work right anymore. Or maybe it did and nobody remembered to turn it on.

Eden pulled a chair to the counter. Reached for the cereal box. Poured it into a bowl. Added milk. The milk was almost empty. She used what was left.

Nobody had gone shopping.

She carried her bowl to the table. Sat in her usual spot. The chair across from her was empty.

His chair.

She didn't look at it.

The house creaked. Upstairs, Mom's footsteps moved across the floor. Back and forth. Back and forth. The same path she walked every morning in his room.

Eden ate her cereal.

The spoon scraped the bowl. Loud in the quiet.

She counted bites. Three. Four.

That's when she saw it.

Movement. Just at the edge of her vision.

Eden stopped chewing.

Not scary movement. Not fast. Just... there. Like when you think you see something but when you turn your head it's gone.

She keeps her eyes on her bowl. Tries to see it without looking.

There.

In the corner. Where the kitchen met the hallway. Where the morning light didn't quite reach.

Something tall.

Something pale.

Something watching.

Eden's heart beat faster. Not scared-fast. Curious.

She set down her spoon. Turned her head slowly.

Empty hallway.

She turned back to the table.

There! Again.

This time she didn't turn. Just shifted her eyes. Tried to catch it the way she used to catch her brother cheating at hide-and-seek—looking without looking.

The shape was clearer now.

Tall. Taller than Dad. Thin.

Watching her.

Eden should have been scared.

She wasn't.

She was lonely.

And lonely children do things that other children wouldn't.

"Hello?" she whispered.

The shape didn't move.

Upstairs, Mom's footsteps stopped.

Eden waited.

Nothing.

She tried again. Louder this time. "Are you lost?"

Silence.

But the shape didn't leave.

Eden turned in her chair. Faced the hallway. Faced the corner. Faced the thing that was definitely there even though it shouldn't be.

"I'm Eden," she said. "I'm eight. Well, eight and a half."

The shadow shifted.

Not walking. Not exactly. Just... less in one place and more in another. Closer to the doorway. Closer to the light.

Eden's hands were shaking. She put them in her lap where the shape couldn't see.

"Do you have a name?"

The shadow moved again.

This time it shifted into the kitchen.

Into the light.

And Eden saw it.

It was tall. Taller than the doorway. Taller than possible. But it fit anyway. Like it knew how to fold itself into small spaces.

Its skin was pale. Not white-pale. Not sick-pale. Absence-pale. The color of things that had never seen sun. The color of the underside of stones. The color of forgotten.

Its arms were too long. Hanging at its sides. Fingers reaching past its knees. Too many joints. Bending at angles that didn't make sense.

But its face—

Its face was almost kind.

Not quite. Not exactly. But close enough that an eight-year-old girl who hadn't been looked at in six months might see something gentle there.

Eden stared.

The thing stared back.

Then it spoke.

"Hello, Eden."

Its voice sounded like her voice. Like someone had recorded her saying "hello" and played it back through water. Through distance. Through something that wasn't quite air.

Eden's throat was dry.

"What's your name?" she managed.

The thing tilted its head. The movement was too smooth. Too fluid. Like oil. Like smoke.

"You may call me Pale," it said.

"Like the color?"

"Like the quiet."

Eden didn't understand. But she nodded anyway.

Pale took a step closer. Its feet didn't make sound. Just... were in one place, then another.

"Are you scared?" it asked in her voice.

Eden thought about it. Really thought.

Was she scared?

No.

She was something else.

"Are you my imaginary friend?" she asked instead.

Pale's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything human. But close.

"If you'd like," it said.

"I've never had one before. My friend Jessica has one but Mom says I'm too old for that."

"You're not too old."

"Really?"

"Never too old to have a friend, Eden."

Something in Eden's chest loosened. Something that had been tight for six months. Since the funeral. Since Mom stopped looking at her. Since Dad started working late. Since the house became a place where nobody spoke and everybody forgot.

"Do you want to play?" Eden asked.

Her voice sounded small. Hopeful. Desperate in a way she didn't have words for.

Pale moved closer.

Still in the corner of her vision. Still just slightly wrong. Still perfect.

"I would like that very much," it said.

Upstairs, Mom's footsteps started again. Back and forth. Back and forth in his room.

Dad wouldn't be home until dinner. Maybe later.

And Eden—lonely, invisible, desperate Eden—wasn't alone anymore.

"What do you want to play?" she asked.

Pale tilted its head. Considered.

"Tell me about yourself," it said. "I want to know everything."

Eden smiled.

For the first time in six months, someone wanted to listen.

Eden led Pale upstairs.

She didn't look back to see if he was following. She could feel him. Cold at her back. Patient. There.

Her room was small. Pink walls that used to be bright but had faded. Stuffed animals lined up on her bed—a fox, two bears, a rabbit with one ear. Drawings taped to the walls. Crayon and marker. Some of them curling at the edges.

Nobody had looked at them in months.

"This is my room," Eden said.

"It's lovely," he said in her voice.

Eden smiled. "Do you want to have a tea party?"

"I would like that very much."

She pulled her toy chest from the corner. Inside: plastic tea cups, a chipped teapot, mismatched plates.

She'd gotten the set for her seventh birthday. Back when birthdays still mattered.

Eden arranged everything on the floor in a circle. Cups in front of each spot. The teapot in the middle. She moved her stuffed animals into position—fox on the left, bears together, rabbit across from her.

One space left.

She looked up at Pale.

"You sit here." She patted the floor.

Pale folded himself down. His knees bent at wrong angles. His too-long fingers rested on his thighs. He was too big for the circle. Too big for the room. Too big for the world.

But he sat.

And somehow, it worked.

Eden sat across from him. Lifted the teapot. Pretended to pour.

"Do you take sugar?" she asked.

"However you take it," Pale said.

She pretended to add sugar. Pretended to stir. Passed him a cup.

His fingers wrapped around it. Too many joints. The plastic disappeared in his hand.

"Thank you," he said.

Eden lifted her own cup. Pretended to sip.

They sat like that for a moment. Quiet. Comfortable.

Then Pale spoke.

"Tell me about yourself, Eden."

His voice was soft. Gentle. Genuinely curious.

Eden set down her cup.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything." Pale tilted his head. "What makes you happy? What makes you sad? What do you think about when you're alone?"

Nobody had asked her that before.

Not in six months.

Not since—

"I had a brother," Eden said.

The words came out small. Careful. Like she was testing them.

Pale didn't interrupt. Didn't look away. Just watched her with those eyes that weren't quite eyes but were close enough.

"His name was Charlie. He was eleven. He liked dinosaurs and soccer and he used to steal my markers." Eden's voice got quieter. "He got sick. Really sick. And then he... he didn't get better."

"That must have been very hard," Pale said.

"Yeah."

"Tell me more."

Eden looked down at her plastic cup. At her hands. Small and pale against the pink carpet.

"Mom cries a lot. She goes in his room and just... stays there. Dad works all the time. They don't really talk to me anymore. It's like—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It's like they forgot I'm here."

Pale leaned forward. Just slightly.

"That sounds very lonely."

"It is."

The words hurt coming out. Like they'd been stuck in her chest for months and finally had somewhere to go.

"Do you miss him?" Pale asked. "Your brother?"

"Yeah. A lot."

"Tell me about him. What was he like?"

And Eden did.

She told Pale about Charlie. About the hospital. About the machines. About becoming invisible after the funeral. About trying to show Mom her drawings. About Dad saying "that's nice, honey" without looking. About eating cereal alone every morning and going to bed alone every night and sitting in her room with her stuffed animals because they were the only ones who still saw her.

And as she talked—

As the words poured out—

Something shifted.

The air grew colder.

The light in the room dimmed just slightly.

And Eden felt... lighter.

Not physically. Not exactly. But the weight in her chest—the one that had been sitting there since Charlie died, since her parents stopped seeing her, since she became a ghost in her own house—

It lifted.

Just a little.

Just enough.

"I feel better," Eden said, surprised.

Pale was smiling. A real smile this time. Not quite human but genuine.

"Talking helps," he said. "When we share our feelings, they don't weigh as much."

"Really?"

"Really."

Eden picked up her cup again. Pretended to sip. She did feel better. Lighter. Less sad.

"Can we do this again?" she asked. "Tomorrow?"

"Every day, if you'd like."

"I'd like that."

Pale's smile widened.

Around them, the stuffed animals sat in their circle. Silent witnesses. The plastic cups gleamed dully in the dimming light.

And in the corner—if you looked closely, if you knew what to look for—

Eden's edges were just slightly less solid than they'd been an hour ago.

Just barely.

Just enough.

"Tell me more," Pale said softly. "Tell me about today. Tell me what makes you sad. Tell me everything."

And Eden—lonely, desperate, finally heard—did.

She told him everything.

From the hallway, Eden’s mom heard her daughter’s soft laughter through her door.

She closed her eyes in relief, “At least she's ok”

She didn't open the door.

Didn't look.

Just kept walking.

Back to Charlie's room. Back to the grief. Back to forgetting.

And upstairs, in a little pink room with faded walls—

The feeding continued.

The tea parties happened every day now.

Eden stopped going downstairs for breakfast. Stopped trying to show Mom her drawings. Stopped waiting for Dad to come home.

She had Pale.

And Pale had time.

All the time in the world.

Mom was carrying laundry past Eden's room when she saw them. Drawings taped to the walls. Dozens of them. All new.

A tall figure. Thin arms hanging past its knees. Standing next to a small girl with blonde hair.

Mom set down the laundry basket. Stepped into the room.

Eden wasn't there. But the tea party was set up on the floor—cups arranged in a perfect circle, stuffed animals in their spots, one empty space where something had been sitting.

The carpet was cold.

Mom looked at the drawings again. The figure was in every single one. Sometimes blank where its face should be. Sometimes with eyes. Too many eyes. In one drawing—the one that made Mom's hands shake—Eden in her pink dress, her face replaced by a scribbled black void.

She grabbed several drawings and went downstairs.

"John!" Her voice cracked. "John, look at these."

Dad came in from the garage. Took the drawings.

"What the hell is this?"

"Eden's been drawing them. Over and over. The same thing."

They looked at each other.

"When was the last time you actually watched her?" Dad asked quietly. "Like really watched what she's doing?"

Mom's throat tightened. "I don't... Charlie's room, I..."

"I know." Dad set the drawings on the table. "But we need to do better.”

That evening, they took turns watching her.

Dad stood outside Eden's bedroom door. Not going in. Not interrupting. Just... listening. Watching through the crack.

Eden sat at her tea party. Stuffed animals arranged around her. The empty chair across from her.

She lifted her plastic teacup. Pretended to sip.

"What do you want to talk about today?" she asked the empty chair.

Silence.

Then—soft, almost inaudible—a voice that sounded exactly like Eden's voice but wrong:

"Tell me what made you sad."

Dad's blood went cold.

Eden answered herself. But her mouth never moved.

"Mom cried again," Eden said. "Dad yelled at someone on the phone. They didn't eat dinner."

The other voice—Eden's voice but not—responded: "How did that make you feel?"

Dad pushed the door open. "Eden. Honey. Who are you talking to?"

Eden turned. Her eyes were distant. Unfocused. "Pale."

"There's no one there."

"Yes there is." Eden pointed at the empty chair. "He's right there. He's always there."

Dad looked at the chair.

Saw nothing.

But felt cold.

Mom appeared behind him. She'd been pacing in Charlies room close by.

"Eden, please," Mom said. “Come downstairs. Let's—let's watch a movie. Like we used to. Remember?"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Pale needs me. It's tea time."

"Eden—"

"You don't see me anyway." Eden's voice was matter-of-fact. Not angry. Just true. "You haven't seen me since Charlie died. But Pale does. He sees everything."

The words hit like a fist.

Mom opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. I know I haven't—we haven't—"

"It's okay." Eden was already turning back to her tea party. "Pale says you did your best. He says sometimes people forget. But he doesn't forget. He never forgets."

Mom reached for her.

Eden was cold. Her skin translucent.

Like touching mist. Like touching air.

"John! She's—she's disappearing. She's—"

Eden looked up at them both. Smiled.

Dad tried to rip her away from the tea party.

His hands passed through her.

Like she was made of smoke.

"Eden!" He was crying now. Desperate. "Please! Fight this! You have to—"

"I don't want to fight." Eden's voice was barely sound. Barely there. " I'm not sad anymore."

"Because he's taking it!" Mom screamed. "He's taking you!"

"Yeah." Eden smiled. Peaceful. Empty. "He's taking the parts that hurt. So there won't be anything left to hurt at all."

She turned to the empty chair.

To Pale.

To the thing they still couldn't see but could feel—cold and patient and inevitable.

"I'm ready," Eden whispered.

The air in the room changed.

Grew colder.

Darker.

Mom and Dad saw it then.

Not clearly. Not fully. But enough.

A shape in the corner. Tall. Wrong. Moving forward.

Sitting in the empty chair.

Pale.

Mom lunged forward. Reached for Eden.

"Come with me. Please. We'll do better. We'll—"

Mom was sobbing now. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please—"

But Eden was already turning back.

Back to her tea party.

Back to her circle.

Back to the only one who'd ever really listened.

"I want to stay with Pale," she said.

And Pale—ancient, patient, inevitable—smiled.

Not cruel. Not triumphant.

Just satisfied.

"Then stay," he said in Eden's voice.

Eden dissolved.

Not painfully.

Not violently.

Gently.

Like mist in sunlight.

Like breath on glass.

Like something that had never been quite solid to begin with.

Mom screamed.

Reached.

Grabbed nothing.

Just air. Just cold. Just the space where her daughter had been.

Dad was on his knees. Grasping at emptiness.

And Pale stood.

Tall. Solid. Full.

He looked at them both.

With Eden's eyes.

"She was lonely," he said softly. Gently. Not mocking. Just true. "And you let her be."

Then he was gone.

Not fading. Not dissolving.

Just gone.

Like he'd never been there at all.