Write

There's somebody standing in the corner of my room. I can't see him, but I know he is there, and yes, it is a he. The collar of his shirt flaps soft with the night air, and the breadth of his hands dwarfs the whole space. I don't move, but it's not because I'm scared. I just don't want him to know that I know. That he's there. I don't want him to leave. His keeping watch while I sleep, a sort of volunteer sentryman, comforts me like my father's stroking my hair. Maybe it was my father who dispatched him, as he was otherwise indisposed. My father must have heard about the night terrors, and this man was the shield that would keep them at bay. How do I thank him for this small gift? I understand that to speak would be uncouth. I will just lie here. I will repeat to myself: come back, come back, come back.