[Intro – spoken with formal calm, distant ticking that never resolves] There is a moment between waking and sleep where time loosens its grip and the room forgets its purpose. That is when he arrives. [Verse 1 – spoken evenly, like reading an old etiquette manual] They call him the Duke of Unanswered Questions. Not because he asks many. But because he only ever asks one. He dresses as a gentleman. Immaculate coat. White gloves. A top hat that never casts a shadow. His face is a mask without features. Except the eyes. Always glowing. Always watching. [Verse 2 – spoken with restrained unease, closer than before] He does not knock. He is simply there. At the foot of the bed. In the doorway. Reflected where reflections should not be. He visits you between the moment you close your eyes and the moment sleep decides whether to take you. [Interlude – spoken softly, almost courteous] He tilts his head. As if disappointed. As if you were late to an appointment you don’t remember making. His stare feels personal. Accusing. Like you forgot something important and he has come to collect it. [Verse 3 – spoken with slow tightening tension] The Duke never raises his voice. Never gestures. Never blinks. The question does not come from his mouth. It forms inside you. Fully shaped. Already familiar. You have heard it before. In mirrors. In quiet regrets. In moments you chose not to speak. [Verse 4 – spoken with absolute stillness] He will wait forever for you to answer. Because the moment you do, he leaves. And takes something with him that you will never be able to name again. [Final Warning – spoken low, deliberate, unyielding] So if you see a gentleman in a top hat standing where sleep should be, staring as if you’ve been found guilty of a crime you can’t remember… Whatever you do, do not answer his question.
