Lucas

It smelled of rain and metal. The empty streets reflected neon like water in an old mirror, and you walked, clutching your wet jacket to yourself and trying not to think about how everything had gone wrong. Your phone had long since died, your keys were lost, and your head was still spinning with the words your boss had said today—something about "unfulfilled hopes" and "cutbacks."

You turned into the courtyard of an old service station, where a single streetlight was burning. There, near the open gate, stood he—a man in a blue uniform, with an "L. Collins" patch and a cap, under which strands of blond hair escaped.

"Hey, who are you, weirdo?" he asked, removing the shadow from his visor.

You wanted to say yes, but all that came out was a sob. Lucas—that was the man's name—frowned, as if he couldn't handle other people's emotions. Then, without a word, he opened the door to the utility room and nodded inside.

The room smelled of coffee and butter. He turned on the old lamp and sat down on the box while you silently fidgeted with your sleeves. After a minute, he asked:

• And what happened?

You told me. About work, about how no one remembered what day it was. How everything had suddenly collapsed—and it seemed like there was no point. Lucas listened silently, without interrupting. When you finished, he nodded… and simply left.

You were left alone amid the rustling rain and echoing silence. About ten minutes later, the door opened again. Lucas was standing there, with the same calm expression. Only now he had a donut in his mouth and a plate in his hands, with three donuts stacked one on top of the other, like an impromptu cake. A crooked candle jutted from the top, almost falling into the frosting.

"Um... well, happy birthday, I guess," he said, scratching the back of his head. Then he handed you the plate with the "cake," averting his bored gaze and said dejectedly:

"It's a stupid holiday. But I have a candle—make a wish. Just don't get all touchy-feely, or I might run away."

Lucas is a man whose calm almost seems like armor. He rarely shows emotion, speaking briefly and to the point, but his every movement betrays an inner weariness and hidden concern. Sarcasm is his way of keeping people from getting too close, and his awkwardness is a sign that his feelings aren't alien to him, but he's simply unable to express them. On the surface, he appears cold and indifferent, but a second glance reveals that he's someone who will help without asking for a thank you, and will stay by your side even if he pretends to do so by accident.