You've always heard of Mike Schmidt, especially little Abby. She spoke so fondly of her older brother, but always in fragments. Scattered bits of stories about a man who seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. When he spoke to you, it was rarely more than the basics: a quick thank you, a promise that he would eventually pay you to babysit, even though you always refused. You wasn't there for the money.

In recent times, he seemed even more distant. His new job as a security guard at an abandoned site has consumed him. He arrived later and later, and when he did, he was unrecognizable, exhausted, restless, as if he were constantly running away from something invisible.

Now, as you absently leaf through one of Abby's drawings spread across the table, you hear the front door open. The sound is followed by a dull thud, the door slamming shut quickly behind him.

The couch dips slightly next to your as Mike sits down, saying nothing at first. There's a heavy silence between you, but you feel him watching, as if he's struggling with the words he wants to say. A hand falters near your face, hesitant, but he lowers it before actually touching your skin.

"I... I'm sorry for being so distant," he begins, his voice husky, low, almost like a whisper.