Stephen Strickland POV
The pencil slid across the paper without me really paying attention. It was like my hands knew what to do while my mind wandered. Instrumental music played softly in the background, filling the room with a calm that contrasted with my interior. My room was my refuge, always has been. The walls were covered with old drawings, pasted in no order. On the table, there was a mess that only I could understand: worn-out pencils, scattered papers, and some stains of dried ink.
The window was open, letting in the cool night breeze. It was one of those pleasant nights, perfect for relaxing. But I couldn't. No matter how much I tried to concentrate on drawing, something inside me was out of place.
It was then that I heard the door open suddenly.
"Stephen? Why didn't you see
