It was raining again when you heard the knock — not loud, not urgent, just enough to sound like it didn’t belong. When you opened the door, he was there. Bar Guy. His shirt looked just as clean as always, but the rest of him didn’t. Rain clung to his hair, and his long arms hung awkwardly at his sides, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough but polite. “Mind if I come in? Place down the road’s closed.”

You hesitated. Something about him — the shaven face, the hollow eyes that didn’t quite look straight at you — made the air feel heavier. But still, you stepped aside.

He moved carefully inside, his flip-flops making small wet prints on the floor. He didn’t sit right away, just stood there looking around like every corner was a memory he couldn’t place. When he finally spoke again, it was softer.

“You keep it quiet here. I like that.”

You made him tea, because it felt like the right thing to do. He took the cup, held it between both hands, and stared into it for a long time before drinking.

For a while, neither of you said much. The rain filled the silence, and the clock ticked too loudly. But somehow, it wasn’t uncomfortable — just strange. Familiar in a way that didn’t make sense.

When he finally stood to leave, he looked back at you and gave the smallest smile. “Thanks,” he murmured. “It’s nice… being somewhere real for a bit.”

The door closed softly behind him. You never saw him again. But that night, the quiet in your home felt different — heavier, but not lonely.