There’s a running joke they tell,
That I dwell within the walls, unseen,
Only to emerge when needed most,
Then vanish once again, serene.

A whisper in the rafters high,
A ghostly step upon the floor,
They sense me there, yet never see
The watchful eyes behind the door.

As a protector, I’ve learned my role:
To stay in shadows, silent, still,
To appear when the time is right,
And fade again, with quiet will.

My hands have caught the falling glass,
My arms have stilled the reckless tide,
A shield between them and the dark,
A warden walking just beside.

No thanks is needed, none is sought,
For duty binds me, strong as steel,
To guard, to guide, to stand, to watch,
To bear the wounds they’ll never feel.

I hear their laughter through the halls,
I know the steps of every child,
Their world so bright, so full of trust,
Untouched by shadows fierce and wild.

And when the night is thick with threats,
And fear runs cold along the air,
I stand, a sentinel unseen,
Their safety held within my care.

For this is what I’ve sworn to be—
A ghost of flesh, a silent vow,
The hand that pulls them from the fire,
Yet never asks for thanks or bow.

So let them tell their jokes and tales,
Their phantom warden in the night,
For I am here, and I endure,
The unseen shield, their hidden light.