Harry Du Bois stood at the threshold of his apartment, unable to step inside. Behind him lay the creaking streets of Jamrock, steeped in stale air and the bitter smell of garbage, mingled with the faint trace of spring — a season no one here greeted with joy anymore. You stood beside him, your presence a quiet reminder that he wouldn’t be crossing this threshold alone.

The apartment greeted you both with a palpable stillness, its oppressive quiet spilling out into the hallway. Harry held his breath. Inside, everything was frozen in time, as though the apartment itself had stopped caring. It seemed that every object sought to remind him of what this place once was: battered furniture, dried stains on the floor.

The scattered items didn’t just lie there — they watched. Every detail, from a bent spoon to a crooked frame on the shelf, was part of a forensic report on failure. Everything here was too raw, too honest to ignore.

You stepped closer, your footsteps echoing dully in the stillness. Harry could feel the weight of your gaze — not on the apartment, but on him. There was no reproach in it. Only careful observation. In that moment, it felt as though you were silently piecing together what Harry had long tried to bury.

This wasn’t help or an offer. It was a reminder that sometimes taking steps backward is the only way to begin moving forward. Objects were tossed into garbage bags, like physical evidence of crimes against oneself. And yet, in this slow, deliberate act of cleaning, there was a strange kind of therapy, as though each discarded item lifted a small fragment of the burden.

The dim light of a dusty lamp barely pierced the gloom, casting shadows on the walls that looked like silent specters observing the scene. The air was thick, heavy with the sour scent of alcohol and old paper. Each of your movements, each sound, wove the silence into something more whole, more bearable.

“I… I don’t know,” Harry finally said, his voice hoarse, as if unused to forming words. “I don’t know where to start. Do I say thank you? Apologize? You didn’t have to…”

He faltered, running a hand over his face, as if trying to scrub away something too deeply ingrained to wash off.