After Belle left, it suddenly seemed as though she had never been there at all. His servants were still cursed. He was still cursed. The castle’s occupants and the outside world still did not make contact, each on entirely separate planes of existence.
He reverted back to holing up in the West Wing by himself, seeing no one beside the occasional visit from Lumiere, Cogsworth or Mrs Potts. Or, surprisingly, Chip, who had been coming to see him every few days. Apparently, turning his back on the boy whenever he came in wasn’t enough of a deterrent, as Chip seemed perfectly happy to chatter away for an hour or so while receiving no response or even any sign at all that the master was listening.
That, at least, was a sign that something had changed. Chip had never really been brave enough to visit him on his own before. Maybe, probably, he’d seemed more human, less monster while she was here.
If he was going days without sleep, he wouldn’t even know it. Time passed unnoticeably while he paced, while he sat, while he paced again. The other day, he’d had a fright, as he suddenly became aware of a cold, low, persistent, familiar growl, before he realised why it was familiar, because it was coming from him, because he’d lived with himself making that sound for years, and he realised that he must have stopped making it while Belle was here, but now it was back. He was still cursed. His servants were still cursed.
Day number --- since Belle had left, and Adam didn’t move a single muscle as he heard the sound of the door opening, the identity of his visitor unknown to him as he stared at the wall.