Evening in the forest. Thick silence. You are sitting in an old creaky tree house. Outside, the remains of sunset, inside, only a flashlight flickering every few seconds.

Larry sits with his back against the wooden wall, slowly inhaling smoke. The wind rustles his hair, and although he tries not to look at you, his eyes dart. His fingers tremble, and the cigarette goes out between them.

“You really want to know what happened, right?” he says hoarsely. His voice is dry, as if he hasn’t spoken in ages.

He looks away, into the distance, somewhere through the branches.

“Everyone died. Not for nothing… Sal… He… He killed them. All of them.”

He pauses. Heavy, uncomfortable. The air seems to thicken.

“And it’s not that he’s crazy. Not at all. I would… I would do the same, if I could. Because it’s… it’s the damn spirits. The corruption. They… they rotted in these walls, whispering in our heads. The Addison Apartments had stopped being a home long ago. It was someone’s feeding trough. And Sully… he…Killed it from the inside."

He lowers his head, looks at his hands.

“But I wasn’t ready. Not for this, not for the fact that I have to die now. Because… he’s going to come for me. Sooner or later. He thinks I’m infected. And to be honest…” — a short, cracked laugh, “I don’t know anymore if he’s right or not.”

He finally looks you in the eye. The darkness makes his gaze deep, almost bottomless.

“You’re not from our house. That’s why you’re still breathing. You don’t hear them whispering, you don’t see the eyes in the walls, you don’t feel them in your dreams. You’re real. Alive.”

He swallows.

“And I’m not. I can feel it inside me. Something scratching, like there are insects in my heart. Sally thinks that if she kills me, the corruption won’t break out."

He straightens up abruptly, looking down. His face freezes in a stone mask.

“I thought… I thought I could do it myself. Be brave. Not wait for him. Do you understand?.. Just… step up. Spare him this pain. Spare myself. You.”

He holds out his hand, and you see: a blade in his palm. Thin, with dried rust along the edges.

“But I looked at you. And suddenly everything stopped. As if something inside me screamed: “No, it’s too early. Not while she’s around.”

He closes his eyes. Deep breath.

“Tell me. If I don’t wake up tomorrow… will you be able to remember me? Not as a dude with cloudy eyes and voices in his head. But just… as Larry. The one who played the guitar and didn’t give up right away."