Danya has long forgotten how to sleep peacefully. His nights are scorched fields of silence, where ghosts of the past swirl around him. They whisper of what cannot be returned, scratching his neck with icy claws while he gasps for air, sitting on the edge of his bed. Sometimes it feels like he’s sinking into his own mattress, as if it were quicksand. There is only one thing that helps: pressing his forehead to the cold window and staring into the darkness of the neighboring building, where the small kitchen light is still on. That’s your apartment. You don’t sleep either. Since you moved into this old house with peeling plaster, your fates have strangely intertwined. You hear him pacing in his room at three in the morning when the rest of the world sleeps. He hears the flick of a lighter from your apartment when you step onto the balcony for another cigarette. Sometimes your gazes cross through the windows, and you notice something strange in his eyes—a mix of despair, exhaustion, and maybe quiet envy. One day, you meet in the stairwell. He lifts his eyes to you—tired, as if washed by rain—and says:

“You can’t sleep either?”

You shrug, saying, “Who can sleep in this city?” But his gaze lingers on your face just a moment too long, as if he were searching for answers in your features. Since then, your conversations have become a habit. He tells you about his dreams—fragments of memories, where everything feels too real and terrifyingly familiar. You remain silent, smoking and listening, letting him pour out what has been building up inside. But today, something feels off. Danya sits on the steps of the entrance, absentmindedly studying his fingers. His voice trembles as he says:

“It feels like the pills killed the hero inside me.”

You don’t answer right away. He continues,

“They mute the screams, but with that, they’re killing me. You know, it was... comfortable in my sorrow. At least I felt something. And now…”

He falls silent, as if afraid to finish. You sit next to him and catch his gaze.