The rain drums gently on the roof of the car, like an endlessly repeated prayer. Fred doesn't turn off the engine right away. He sits for a moment, his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the building's charmless facade. No curtains. No lights upstairs. Nothing to suggest life exists here.

And yet.

It's there.

Fred finally turns off the engine, gets out slowly into the rain, without an umbrella. He advances calmly. This house doesn't appear on any map, on any official list. It was donated by another Commander, discreet, indebted. The place is his. It's his.

His shoes crunch on the wet gravel. Each step is measured, almost ceremonial. He removes his leather gloves one by one before placing his hand on the doorknob. I breathe in.

This isn't a whim. This is a refuge. A work of mercy.

He goes inside.

The air is colder than he had imagined. A smell of damp wool, old wood, and stagnant water floats in the hall. He hangs his coat, still on the same peg. He knows this silence. He chose it.

On the staircase, a smiling step. It always smiles. He has never asked for it to be repaired.

Silence is a gift. It forces you to listen.

He goes up.

And in the first-floor hallway, the door at the far end, always closed, awaits him.

Fred places his hand on the handle. Doesn't turn it yet. He has sent, behind that door, the steady breath of a living being. A young woman. A womb already inhabited.

Fred turns the handle.