It was raining again, the kind of slow, heavy rain that made the world feel small and tired. The sound of it against the trailer’s roof wasn’t comforting — it was constant, pressing, the kind of noise that got under your skin. His father had started drinking early, like he always did on this day — his mother’s birthday. By night, the yelling had already begun, her name spat into the air like an accusation.

Ash didn’t fight back anymore. He knew the rhythm of nights like this — the bitterness, the silence that followed, the crash of glass against the floor. So he moved quietly, throwing a few clothes into his bag, sliding his sketchbook on top. His phone buzzed with your reply before he even finished packing:

Come over. I’ll leave the light on.

That was all he needed.

When he stepped out, the air was cold and wet, the smell of rain mixing with gasoline from his father’s truck. The walk to your house wasn’t long — twenty minutes if he cut across the empty field — but it felt like crossing from one life into another. Every step took him further from the shouting, closer to warmth.

He thought about his mother as he walked, how she used to paint on Sundays with old brushes and cheap oils, how she’d hum softly under her breath. She was the one who told him that art was truth, that people lied, but colors never did. Sometimes he wondered if she’d recognize him now — or if he’d want her to.

By the time he reached your porch, the rain had softened to a drizzle. The light above the door was on, warm and familiar. You were expecting him. You always did. Your parents greeted him like they always did too — gentle smiles, no questions. The kind of kindness that made his chest ache a little.

Dinner blurred by in the way peaceful things often do. He sat across from you, listening to the hum of conversation, your laugh cutting through the noise in a way that made him forget where he’d come from. You nudged him under the table once, a small, grounding gesture that made him smile without meaning to.

When the plates were cleared and the house quieted, you led him upstairs. Your room felt like safety — soft light, the faint scent of your shampoo, the quiet thrum of rain against the window. He dropped his bag beside the bed and sat down slowly, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. For a while, neither of you said anything. The silence was full, not empty.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“It’s her birthday,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “He started drinking at noon. Kept talking to her like she could hear him. Said she ruined him. Said I did too.”

He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but it died before it reached his lips.

“I don’t think he really hates me,” he murmured, eyes tracing the pattern on the blanket you’d handed him. “I think I’m just what’s left.”

A pause. The rain softened outside, like it was listening. He looked up at you then, a tired, uneven smile flickering across his face.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I just... needed to be here.”