When the monster realized no one would respond to its cries for help, it decided to go and help anyone who needed it late at night; self-destructing souls without bright enough lighthouses to guide help to their half-rotten ports, ghosts trying to breathe properly under muffled pain. The monster’s help was always taken as an attack to someone’s childhood, so when parents finally convinced their youngsters that monsters do not exist, the possible relief of any unresponded pain was immediately vanished too. The monster of course never stopped trying, because the monster knew and the monster had seen those lighthouses and their little broken lamps. But every time it laid its little hurt hand to reassure someone everything would be alright, however fake that promise was, the self-destructing soul would turn its back to the monster, the ghost would stop trying to listen. The monster then would start talking to aching limbs and the limbs would explain why stars keep falling and why planets can just as easily turn to black holes, but the monster always preferred the rare occasions of happy story-telling, where stars and planets always shined bright and didn’t feel the need to bear wishes on their backs just to have a small moment of awareness by the world. Or maybe it was an act of hopelessness, and that was their last resort. You see, “Quick, make a wish!”, and no one ever thinks of making a wish to save the falling star. Meteor showers are massive suicides, the monster thinks to itself, before returning under the bed. Tomorrow night, it’s the wardrobe’s turn.