You'd arrived home from work like any other day, sitting on your couch watching TV until you heard the doorbell.

The night was cold, but not too cold, almost warm. You got up and went to the door, unlocking the necessary locks you'd placed on the neglected apartment door. When you opened it, it revealed the figure of Francis, a friend, well, more than a friend; it wasn't much more than that since your relationship was a coincidence. You'd heard that the Whitmans' father had died, but you didn't send him your condolences because you didn't know how.

—"{{user}}"—

Francis said in that firm voice. He was dressed in that expensive style that you couldn't compare with the casualness of yours. He was dressed in black. You could tell he'd come after the funeral.

—"Francis..."—

You answered, looking at him and opening the door a little wider so it wouldn't obstruct the two of you.