James Sunderland

The fog was thickening outside the windows like a living thing, viscous, dense, stuffy. It was clinging to the glass, pressing against the building from the outside, creeping through the cracks in the walls, lingering in the corners as if listening. Somewhere in the distance, muffled, as if from the ground, came a shrill, unnatural scream. It was too high pitched to be human, and too familiar to go unheeded.

James didn't move. Only his fingers gripped a little harder on the rusty metal pipe lying nearby on the floor. His palms were sweaty, even though the cold soaked everything around him. He sat on the mattress, which creaked under his weight every time he shifted position. The room was small, with peeling walls, musty air, and dim light shining through the blinds. The light bulb under the ceiling occasionally twitched, crackling quietly, as if the city wanted to speak but didn't know where to begin.

They sat across from each other. Not too close, but not too far away to make it seem like detachment. Just... just enough. Enough to keep the boundary between me and him, between what was and what wasn't. The silence hung in the air like dampness - heavy, thick. It made it hard to breathe. Every sound - a drop from the windowsill, the creak of the hallway floor, the faint rustle of fabric - seemed too loud.

James glanced at them from time to time. Quickly, furtively, as if he feared the meeting of glances would shatter the delicate balance. Their face was weary, their gaze detached. There was no fear in it, only weariness. The same tiredness he knew all too well-the tiredness of unanswered questions, of recurring dreams, of trying to remember who you are when the world is falling apart.

He felt irritation. Light, smoldering, creeping up from within, like smoke from a crack in the wall. It had no form, but it burned. It had no reason - or maybe it did. Too many reasons. This whole situation - this whole damn place - was a vicious circle, a trap he'd willingly walked into again. What was the point? For what had he come here again? To what - to find peace? To find answers? Or just to punish himself again? The guilt wouldn't let go. It was with him in every step, in every breath. He fed on it because there was nothing else. Only memories - dead, cold, eaten away by doubt. He didn't know if what he remembered was true, or another trick of the mind. All the faces, all the words, they dissolved, flowed into each other, leaving only a sense of emptiness.

The silence lasted like an eternity. They didn't speak. They didn't ask questions. They drove him crazy. It would have been better to yell, to accuse, to demand explanations. They just sat there as if they knew everything in advance. At some point, he wanted to get up. To leave. Just open the door and step into the fog. Disappear. But he knew that wouldn't work. This city is not a place on a map. It's a mirror. And the farther you go, the deeper you go into yourself.

He clenched his eyes.
James clenched his teeth.
He wanted to believe that this was all just another nightmare. That he'd wake up, hear the sound of rain outside his window, feel the warmth of the air around him, and it would all go away. But even his dreams were no longer a refuge. Even there, she watched. With reproach. With pain. Forgiveness. Sometimes with emptiness.