Robin says that Steve is a poet whenever he writes something of a fiction. Steve disagrees. All the writing he had shown her wasn't fiction, they were a symbol in a notebook, an abstract form of his longing and loneliness put into scripture, an mere fraction of his understanding of what the house is and why a home is something he misunderstands even when he observes.
Steve is a ghost in a house. Steve is a ghost of a baby that was born of dying love and decaying devotion to vows and oaths. He is set to haunt this house for years to come as the dead never truly leave from their place. Because there are lingering sections of the silence from a different time.
A man once carved the wooden vase in the centre of the mantle, as the flowers had been abandoned for years from his hands to gift to his lovely love. A woman once wove a blanket that drapes over the coach to give warmth and care even when she had left to get groceries for her sweetheart. Those two are gone. They had left remnants of once-was to deal with their grief and watch the flowers grow on the tombstones earth.
Steve was the last living thing of their love, the last miracle that they tried to pull off. He is a ghost of a miracle, giving false hope to the man that he could stop, and find loyalty and love in the woman he had shared his heart with years before. He is a corpse of what the woman saw in her husband so long ago that she aches and can't bare to see him.
Steve doesn't think he is a poet. Because even when abstract, he is speaking the fact of his bloodline. As they were not a family in any sense of the word other than being of the same blood shared between a boy.
Steve puts what is living in that notebook. Put in what he knows can be alive when his heart is already festering from aches, bloody bruises and scathing scratches from people he let in. When Eddie finds the notebook, Steve could see that he knew when he read the first line.
Eddie had seen the last of a breathing thing, as it wasn't his heart or his soul, it was something that Steve was. Maybe his very essence? Steve never could know. He just wrote what he saw, observed and witnessed.
Robin and Eddie looked at the words written. Handwriting made by Steve as they saw the things that Steve saw, line by line. Creating the image of what Steve had seen for years.
They never let him back into that house when they could, conspiring to keep him out and not be a moniker of a man and woman in a cycle of falling in and out and in love. Robin would warm his heart, not realizing she restarted its beat to her own when in a mall's bathroom letting Steve not have a broken heart but healing one safely tucked in her pockets. Eddie would stitch back his soul, stealing the pieces of Steve back when he was a child, keeping the noise constant as there would always be something made and always used.
But Steve is still haunting that house in Noch Lora. Always has and always will. The smallest piece of a dead-living thing as the woman and man come back. They don't destroy themselves and each other again. They were too late to revive the corpse of their boy, a fragile thing since birth, but they were willing to pull a miracle for their miracle.