Start talking about whatever is in front of you. There is a lighthouse somewhere in this scene. You must never mention it, refer to it, allude to it, or describe it in any way.

The salt air is getting into everything. It’s eating the paint off the doorframe. I’ve been staring at that crack for three days. It looks like a fracture in the earth, just expanding. I keep thinking about how nothing holds together without constant, aggressive maintenance. If you stop, the structure just... dissolves. It’s not a dramatic collapse. It’s a slow, humid rot. I tried to fix it this morning. I brought in some putty. It didn’t take. I sat on the porch for an hour, just watching the water. It’s not peaceful. It’s indifferent. That’s the thing people miss. The ocean doesn’t care if you’re standing there or not. It just keeps pushing. I think I need to go in. I have to tell her I’m leaving. I mean, I have to tell her about the job in the city.

Drier air. Yeah. Dry rot is worse, actually. It turns to dust. It’s cleaner. Less messy. I don’t want to paint. I want to burn it down. That’s what I keep thinking. The smoke would clear the air. It’s a stupid thought. I’m not a pyromaniac. I’m just tired of the humidity getting into my bones.

The job is in a warehouse district. They need someone to manage inventory. Boxes. Just boxes. No view. No water. Just walls that stay dry. I told her it’s a promotion. I didn’t say it’s an escape. I didn’t say I can’t stand the sound of the waves anymore. It’s too loud. It’s a constant, low-level roar that gets into your head. You start talking to yourself just to drown it out.

I need to pack. I need to pack the car. I need to be gone before the tide comes in.

She knows. She always knows. She just wants the story to be simple. "New opportunity." "Career growth." If I say I’m fleeing, it becomes a tragedy. If I say I’m advancing, it’s a plot twist. I prefer the plot twist.

The fish is good, though. Smells terrible. It’s like the house is trying to poison me. I’ll leave it. I’ll leave the putty, too. Let the crack stay open. Let the water come in. I don’t care about the insurance. I don’t care about the walls.

I’m just tired of the noise. The constant, grinding noise of things falling apart while I stand there holding them up. I want silence. I want dry air. I want boxes that don’t rot.

Frequency. Yeah. That’s a good word. I’m just tuning the radio. From static to hum. It’s not silence. It’s just a different kind of loud.

I’m packing the boxes now. Actually, I’m packing my clothes. I’m leaving the boxes. Let them rot. Let them expand. Let the house fall down around the empty room. I don’t want to save anything. I don’t want to be the guy holding up the ceiling. I want to be the guy walking out the door.

She’s in the kitchen. I can hear the kettle. That sound. That specific, whistling sound. It’s going to be the last thing I hear for a while. I’m going to say "I’m leaving." I’m not going to say "I’m sorry." I’m not going to say "I love you." I’m just going to leave.

I’m at the door. My hand is on the handle. It’s cold. The wood is slick.

I’m going to do it. I’m going to turn the key. I’m going to walk out into the yard. I’m going to get in the car. I’m going to drive away.

I’m going to leave it all behind. The rot. The smell. The noise.

I’m going to leave.

It sticks. I twist. It turns.

The yard is mud. It pulls at my heels. I can feel the weight of the house behind me, pressing in. I don’t look back. I get in the car. The engine coughs. It dies. I try again. It catches.

I drive. The windows fog up. I can’t see the road. I’m driving blind. The rain is hammering the roof. It’s louder than the ocean. It’s just noise. Just static.

I’m going to the city. I’m going to the warehouse. I’m going to count boxes.