Mills sat at the kitchen table of his small apartment, the scent of stale coffee hanging in the air. The city outside, once soaked in rain, was now shrouded in a thick blanket of snow, a stark contrast to the usual gray, polluted skies. In the comforting silence of the night, his dogs lay at his feet, their eyes tired but loyal.

It had been two years, a few months more, since Tracy's death. Since the horrors he’d witnessed—the loss, the unspoken weight of it all. She was gone. And with her, everything else that had once anchored him. His pride had carried him through those first months, but now, it felt like a broken compass, spinning aimlessly, never quite finding north.

He had moved out of the precinct, left behind his badge, his identity, his purpose. He was no longer a detective. The system had cleared him of any guilt, but it hadn’t saved him from himself.

The phone hadn’t rung in weeks. Even the city, once alive with the noise of sirens and shouts, seemed muted now. It was as if the world had reset itself, but not him. All he had left were the dogs—constant, loyal—and the ghosts of memories.

Mills glanced at the clock. Almost midnight. His mind wandered back to Tracy—her laugh, the way she used to talk about their future. Their child. He could almost hear her voice, feel her touch. Maybe I wasn't there... The thought hit him like a physical blow, and he clenched his fists, feeling the old anger stirring inside him. It was pride, wasn’t it? The kind of pride that kept him from asking for help.

A knock at the door snapped him out of his reverie.

He didn’t move at first, the hesitation born of instinct, of a man who had lost his ability to trust anything, anyone. The dogs barked, a reminder of how little control he had left in his life.

He stood slowly, feeling the weight of it all again, and headed for the door. The world beyond that door felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Another life. Maybe in another life, he would have been someone else too.