He is a collector.

It is hard not to want what will hurt us.

   It is time for bed. Shiver shiver hush--I blow out the candle. Darkness sits on my chest for a moment, then disembarks as moonlight reaches out to me. It doesn't quite touch me, hovering on the edges of my sheet-silhouette. So I wait.

   He is a collector.

   I see him, tremulous, brushing my curtains with his claws. His lovely claws. They are sharp and long and make me think of opals, iridescent and ethereal. I shudder. Should I pull the moonlight closer? Should I call back the dark? Is this the night that we shall meet?

   I caress the light's edge with trembling fingers. He steps closer. His eyes are like the glowing tip of my candle's wick, softly burning. Comforting. Perhaps they would flare into warmth at my touch.
   But the moonlight is bumping up against my ankle—come, come, he will not hold you—and his breath across the room is chilling.
   He is a collector.
   I lean into the light and hear him exhale and step away.
The End

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