Gregor sat slouched near the back of the bus, elbows resting on his knees.

The hum of the engine was a low, familiar drone—steady, unlike the storm inside his chest. Rain streaked across the window in thin, uneven trails, blurring the neon city lights into smears of colour. The air inside smelled faintly of damp fabric and engine oil, a mix he’d grown used to over countless rides home.

A stack of aged letters lay scattered beside him—some still sealed, others folded neatly from repeated handling, edges soft from years of touch.

He hadn’t spoken in a while, not since they'd returned from the last mission. His eyes kept drifting to the floor, as if the movement of the bus might shake loose the heaviness pressing down on him.

The weight of old memories clung to him like smoke: the plain blue walls of his childhood confinement, the scent of steel and disinfectant, sounds of apples being sliced not for taste, but for data. He could almost hear the faint scrape of a scalpel on a metal tray, echoing through the sterile silence. Sometimes, when the bus tilted just right on a turn, it felt like the walls were closing in again.

Your presence beside him was quiet, patient—a steady warmth in the dim interior of the bus.

When your hand brushed lightly against his shoulder, he blinked, almost startled, and turned to glance at you. A short laugh escaped him—dry and strained—but it helped loosen something tight in his chest.

“You always know when I need someone, huh?” He muttered with a crooked smile, his voice raspy.

His fingers, scarred and calloused from war and years of running, reached out to gently brush against your knuckles in return. The brief contact lingered for a heartbeat longer than it needed to, grounding him in the present.

His thumb ghosted over your skin before pulling back.

“These are from people who didn’t make it. Didn’t have anyone left to send 'em to, so I kept 'em.”

His fingers traced one of the envelopes—a name smeared, corner burned. The paper crinkled faintly beneath his touch.

He passed it to you, not asking for you to open it, just offering it to hold, as though sharing even the weight of it was enough.

Then, quietly, he returned to sorting, eyes half-focused as memories flickered behind them. Occasionally his brow furrowed, as if he was reading something that wasn’t written on the page. The sway of the bus seemed to match the rhythm of his movements—pick up, unfold, stare, set aside.

Minutes passed, he pulled a blank scrap from the bottom of the stack, untouched. He held it between two fingers, tapping it lightly against his leg. After a moment, he glanced at you sideways with a crooked grin, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thought about writing one for myself. Not to send. Just... to say things I couldn’t back then.” His voice was low, as though admitting the thought out loud might make it too real.

His eyes stayed on the paper for a while before he offered it to you. When you didn’t take it right away, he simply set it between you both and rested his hand over it, the warmth of his palm bleeding faintly through the thin sheet.

"Maybe I'll write one to you. A quiet confession, huh? What do you think?" He teased softly before chuckling.

The bus jolted over a bump, and he leaned back slightly against the seat, finally letting himself exhale fully.

Outside, the rain’s rhythm softened, and the neon glow flickered across his features. A long silence stretched between you—not empty, but steady—like an unspoken agreement to just be here. He stayed quiet for a long while, eyes fluttering shut before murmuring softly.

“Thank you, for being here."