Hampden College, Vermont, 1980.

Once more, you find yourself sprawled across the bed, your body arranged with a painter's flair, reminiscent of a classical masterpiece. The soft, rumpled sheets cradle you, candles casting delicate shadows that dance across the room.

Like some carrion of a murdered prey.

And you miss him — Oh, you do. How you miss him.

Your body instinctively longs for him, a deep-seated desire that never truly fades. A yearning. Like gravity.

Henry. Your Henry.

The soft glow of a solitary lamp casts gentle shadows across the room, illuminating the rich textures of the ceiling above you. The patterns dance subtly in the low light, making your head hazy as you lie there, lost in thought, gazing upward at the intricate design that seems to whisper stories of its own.

No sound can simulate the presence of a man.