He didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. Just nodded faintly, took the painkillers prescribed, and walked out without asking questions. The sunlight outside felt too bright, too indifferent. By the time he got home, the paper bag in his hand was crumpled, and the ache in his side had returned with a vengeance.
The apartment looked different in daylight. Harsh. Honest. A one-bedroom box with flaking walls, a crooked mattress near the door, and a rickety plastic chair next to a table scarred by cigarette burns. For decades, Vincent had filled the nights with noise. But in the quiet, everything felt empty.