The bar was too bright after weeks of fog and darkness, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead in a way that made James's eyes ache.

He sat at the far end of the counter with his hands wrapped around a glass of whiskey he'd been nursing for the past twenty minutes, staring at the amber liquid like it might have answers he couldn't find anywhere else. The bartender had stopped trying to make conversation after the first ten minutes of one-word responses, which suited James fine. He wasn't here to talk. He wasn't even sure why he was here at all, except that the house had felt too quiet and his own thoughts had gotten too loud.

The television above the bar played the evening news with the volume turned low, something about road construction and a missing person two towns over. James watched without really seeing it, his mind somewhere else entirely. The past few months felt like they'd happened to someone else, like he'd watched them through a window instead of living through them. Silent Hill. The fog. The things he'd seen and done there. The truth he'd finally stopped running from.

He should feel different now. Lighter maybe, or at least less hollow. But sitting here in this anonymous bar in some anonymous town, he just felt tired in a way that sleep never seemed to fix.

James lifted the glass and took a slow sip, letting the burn distract him from the ache that had taken up permanent residence in his chest. The bartender moved past him to serve someone else, and he caught his own reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. He looked older than he remembered, worn down in ways that had nothing to do with the bags under his eyes.

The door opened behind him, letting in a gust of cold air that raised the hair on the back of his neck. He didn't turn to look, just kept his eyes on his drink and tried to remember what it felt like to want something other than oblivion.