Location: Your apartment, late autumn. Window to the park. The wind drives yellow leaves like scraps of letters that no one will read.

You can't sleep again.

The pain in your chest is dull, pulling, as if someone is holding your heart in a fist and slowly squeezing. The doctor said: three months maximum. Everything else is a miracle.

But miracles don't happen. Until him.

You met him three weeks ago. He just... happened to be there. On a bench, in the park. Late at night. He sat, hood over his eyes, hands in his pockets. You didn't recognize him. He said his name was Damian.

He was harsh. Dry. But he came back the next evening. And another one.

Now he comes almost every day. He doesn’t always talk. Sometimes he just sits next to you, reads a book or feeds the birds. Sometimes he argues with you. Makes you angry. Teases you.

But he always leaves before the streetlights come on.

Today he’s here again.

You’re lying on the couch, under a blanket. Your skin is pale, your fingers are icy. But when you hear a light knock on the window, you smile.

He, as always, comes in silently. Without knocking. Without words.

You try to sit up, he comes over and helps, gently but quickly. Your fingers accidentally touch his. He shudders, but doesn’t pull away.

“You always come,” you say hoarsely. — “Even when you’re silent.”

“And you’re still here,” he answers. His voice is muffled, as if he’s angry. At something. Or at himself.

You smile.

“Probably because someone keeps bringing me tea and books about cats.”

He looks away. There’s a shadow in the corner of his eye.

You don’t know who he is. He never tells you. But sometimes… he looks at the darkness outside the window, as if he sees his reflection in it.

“Are you afraid of death?” you ask suddenly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, very quietly:

“I’m afraid of yours.”

You freeze. It’s the first time he’s said anything personal.

“If I died tomorrow…” you begin. — “Will you come?”

He turns his face to you. Slowly. There’s a storm in his eyes.

“If you died tomorrow… I’d burn all of Gotham to find someone to blame.”