They don’t knock anymore — they have keys. They know which stair creaks, which door sticks, which hour I stop pretending I’m fine.
Some are old. They’ve been here since childhood, wearing the faces of people who left. Some are new, freshly minted from last year’s mistakes, still warm from the forge.
They don’t scream. That’s the trick. They whisper in my own voice, so I can’t tell where I end and they begin.
But here’s what they don’t know: I’ve started naming them. And a named thing loses its grip — it becomes just a thing I carry, not a thing that carries me.
They’ll still be here tomorrow. But so will I.