"Because the world outside is too fast," Eleven replied, his extra finger tracing a circle in the dust. "In here, I can make a single minute last an eternity. But you, little bird, you have twelve years to grow before you’ll understand the beauty of standing still."
He wasn't a ghost, at least not in the rattling-chain sense. He was a presence defined by silence and the number eleven. He had eleven fingers—an extra, spindly digit on each hand that tapped rhythmic codes against the wood: tap-tap... tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. 11 : Closet Man
He showed Leo his collection: eleven glass marbles that held the reflections of people who had once lived in the house, eleven dried pressed flowers from a garden that no longer existed, and eleven secrets he had overheard through the drywall. "Because the world outside is too fast," Eleven
The youngest, Leo, discovered him during a game of hide-and-seek. Pushing past the mothballed coats, he found a man sitting cross-legged in the shadows. The Closet Man wore a suit of gray wool, far too large for his frame, and held a stopwatch that ticked only once every eleven seconds. "Are you hiding too?" Leo whispered. He was a presence defined by silence and the number eleven