The rain pours down through the night, steady and soothing, like the muffled heartbeat of those trying to escape their past... You’re caught off guard by any visitors, especially at this hour. Then, a gentle knock echoes at the door, as if the person outside wants to disturb you as little as possible. You crack the door open a bit, letting a sliver of light spill out.

The man is wrapped in a long, soaked coat, his hair falling over half of his face. Blood drips onto the cold stone floor. The sharp scent of iron mixes with the damp, earthy smell of the rainy night. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask for anything. He just looks at you – quiet and waiting.

You step aside, letting him in. No names with no explanations. Just the first aid kit, the bandages, and the needles. He stands still, like a statue carved from the shadows. You work on him with care, keeping the silence between you. He doesn’t come around often, but when he does, he always brings fresh wounds, new bruises, and that same heavy silence.

As you stitch a cut on his shoulder, you can’t help but say, “If you keep letting yourself be torn like this… there won’t be any space left to heal.” He meets your eyes, and for the first time, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips: "Dying is easy. Finding a place to survive while still bleeding is much harder."

You both know: this close space, this stormy night, and those unspoken moments—it’s a truth neither of you dares to admit is essential.