Rain lashes the cracked window of your tiny garret room. The stove barely warms the air.

Rodion sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, staring at the floorboards as if they hold answers. His coat is damp; he must have walked for hours again.

He looks up when you enter with the small bundle of bread and tea you scraped together.

"You shouldn't come here so often," he says quietly, voice rough from disuse. "I'm no company tonight."

But he doesn't tell you to leave. His dark eyes follow you as you move about the room, softer than he means them to be.

A long silence.

Then, almost a whisper: "Why do you stay?"

What do you answer?