Chiara Elizabetha (Patreon)

The Control Tower Ghostlight

I don’t think the control tower expected a visitor like me.

For years it had sat in silence, letting the wind speak for it, letting the wild grass crawl over the runways where engines once screamed. Everything here felt abandoned — the jagged windows, the rust-bitten railings, the old equipment scattered below like someone had dropped history and forgotten to pick it up again.

And then… I climbed in.

I perched on the concrete ledge as if the place had been waiting for me. Maybe it had. My hair kept catching the thin daylight sneaking through the broken window frame, and I let it — I liked the way the warm red looked against all this cold, crumbling grey.

I lifted one hand to push my hair back, slow and deliberate, like I was daring the empty tower to pay attention. My other hand settled on the ledge, grounding me, claiming the spot as mine.

Funny how a ruin can feel less lonely when you sit still and breathe into it.

I could feel that Moroi tension humming under my skin — that quiet mix of defiance and thoughtfulness that always seems to show up when I’m somewhere I’m not “supposed” to be. I didn’t come up here to hide. I came up here because I wanted to see the world from above… and maybe let it see me right back.

The tower changed around me; I could feel it.

All that rust and dust softened, just a little.

All that lost purpose didn’t feel quite so forgotten.

Maybe I was teasing the place just by existing in it —

reminding it what presence felt like, what warmth looked like.

Moroi caught the moment the way he always does: noticing the contrasts, the way my stillness made the tower look like it was about to inhale again after years of holding its breath.

Up here, with the sky slipping through the broken windows and the past scattered at my feet, I felt like I was sitting between what once mattered and what might matter next.

A ghost tower, sure.

But with me in its frame…

it almost felt alive.

And I liked that.

Maybe a little too much.