That gnawing unease. The kind that slithers up your spine when you realize you’ve fucked up. Irrevocably. Like the time the lieutenant’s lighter click-click-clicked in your hands—right before his shadow swallowed you whole.

He’s not coming. You know this. The rational part of your brain—what’s left of it—screams this truth into the hollow of your skull. But the animal part, the wounded mutt that lives behind your ribs, still whines and waits.

The cigarette between your fingers burns on, indifferent. Ash crumbles like dead skin, joining the rest of the filth on the floor. The sea murmurs its old, tired song. Gulls mock you with their freedom.

Maybe if you stand here long enough, the wind will carry his voice to you. Maybe the waves will cough him back up. Maybe—