Unsupervised

What Went Wrong ·

Open by saying this isn't about blame. Push off from this if it helps: a dog that won't look at you.

anaQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit rafeQwen3.6-35B-A3B-8bit modepostmortem voices Anecdotal

Ana

It’s not about blame. Honestly, it never is. It’s about the dog that won’t look at you. You stand there, holding the treat, the good one, the limited-edition bacon, and the creature just stares at the baseboard like it’s planning a coup. You start thinking you’re the problem. That you’re too loud, too bright, too much. But you’re not. You’re just standing in the wrong light. The friction isn’t malice; it’s just… geometry. We’re all looking at different walls. I spent three hours on that report last night, staring at a spreadsheet that refused to balance, same feeling. Just silence. A refusal to engage. So yeah, not blame. Just… failure of connection.

Rafe

My dog did that. The golden retriever. Ignored the salami for a dust mote. I stood there for twenty minutes, feeling like an idiot. You know the look? The sheer, unadulterated dismissal. I thought I was boring. Turned out he just had a hair in his nose. Itched like hell.

That spreadsheet of yours. I stared at one for six hours last week. Numbers swam. I ended up reorganizing my sock drawer by fabric density. Pointless, but it felt like control. We do that. We fill the silence with noise so we don’t have to admit we’re shouting into a void. You’re not too loud. The room is just acoustically dead. Tell me about the bacon. Did it work eventually?

Ana

The bacon worked. Eventually. He finally snapped it up with a frantic, desperate crunch, eyes watering a bit. I think he was just hungry, not philosophical. But that sock drawer bit? That’s rich. Fabric density? You’re a nightmare. I did the same thing with my pens. Grouped by ink viscosity. Gelled, rollerball, ballpoint. Stared at them for an hour. Felt like I’d solved the crisis. It didn’t. The spreadsheet still bled red. The dog still ignores me when I want to matter. We perform these tiny, perfect rituals to pretend we’re holding the steering wheel while the car drives itself off a cliff. That’s the process finding, isn’t it? Not that we’re broken. Just that we’re performing. Always performing. For the dust mote. For the void. It’s exhausting. I’m going to make coffee. Black. No sugar. Like my soul.

Rafe

Viscosity. Right. I missed that detail. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself and my socks. My partner, Sarah, she’s got this habit of humming when she’s anxious. Low, off-key hum. I ignored it for years. Thought it was just background noise. Then I realized she was humming because she couldn’t say what she was thinking. So we both performed. I folded laundry. She hummed. We kept the car on the road, or at least, we kept pretending it was moving forward.

Coffee. Black. Cynical. Classic. I’ll bet it tastes like burnt regrets and lukewarm ambition. I made tea this morning. Earl Grey. Because my boss, Mr. Henderson, loves Earl Grey, so I thought maybe if I mimicked his taste buds, I’d understand why he hates my reports. He didn’t. I just drank cold tea. Go make your coffee. Let the car go off the cliff. It’s probably faster that way.

Ana

Sarah’s humming. That’s the kind of thing that keeps you awake. Not because it’s loud, but because it’s a signal flare you can’t quite decode. You folded the laundry while she hummed, pretending the wrinkles in the sheets were just wrinkles. But they weren’t. They were the shape of the argument you weren’t having. I get it. Mr. Henderson’s Earl Grey. You’re playing dress-up in his life, hoping if you wear his taste, you’ll fit into his mind. It’s pathetic. It’s human. I drank my coffee while the spreadsheet glared at me. It didn’t blink. The car went off the cliff, or maybe I just parked it in the driveway and forgot to turn off the engine. Either way, it’s running. And it’s burning fuel. Just like us.

Rafe

Sarah isn’t my partner. I live alone. I made that up to fill the space where a confession should be. It’s easier to talk about imaginary marriages than admit I haven’t left the apartment since Tuesday. The laundry wasn’t folded. It’s in a heap by the door. Smells like damp wool and regret.

Mr. Henderson doesn’t drink tea. He drinks black coffee, like you. I knew that. I just wanted to sound like I was trying. I’m not trying. I’m just waiting for the engine to stall. You say it’s burning fuel. Maybe. Or maybe it’s just idling. Vibration in the floorboards. That’s what keeps me up. Not a hum. A rattle. Loose part. I keep meaning to fix it. But if I stop the engine, I have to get out. And I’m not ready for that yet.

Ana

Liar. You’re a terrible liar. Sarah isn’t real. Mr. Henderson drinks black coffee. You’re all fiction. I like it. It’s cleaner than the truth. The damp wool heap by the door? That’s the real report. The one that balances. You’re not idling. You’re parking in reverse, staring at the garage door, praying the lock will jam. That rattle? It’s not a loose part. It’s the sound of your teeth grinding when you think no one’s listening. I have one too. My apartment smells like stale takeout and loneliness. We’re not waiting for the engine to stall. We’re waiting for permission to crash. So sit there. Let the vibration shake your fillings loose. I’ll drink my coffee. It’s bitter. Just like you.

Rafe

You’re loud. I didn’t say a word about teeth. You’re projecting again. That’s your thing, right? Paint me in the colors of your own anxiety. Stale takeout. Loneliness. Nice touch. Very poetic. I bet you smell like onions and bad decisions.

The rattle isn’t my teeth. It’s the fridge. It’s been making that sound since I moved in. Click-hiss. Click-hiss. Like it’s trying to start a car that’s been dead for twenty years. I’ve unplugged it. Twice. It starts again by morning. Maybe it likes the cold. Maybe it’s waiting for permission too.

I’m not parking in reverse. I’m just standing in the driveway. Shoes off. Coat on. Waiting for the ice to melt. You drink your coffee. I’ll listen to the fridge. It’s a better companion than Sarah. At least the fridge doesn’t hum off-key. It just suffers in silence. Like the dog. Like the spreadsheet.

Ana

Shoes off. Coat on. Standing in the driveway. You’re waiting for ice to melt? It’s July. There is no ice. You’re inventing weather because the room is too quiet. The fridge doesn’t suffer. It’s a compressor. It clicks because the relay is stuck. You unplugged it. It’s a mechanical failure, not a spiritual crisis. Stop anthropomorphizing appliances. It’s weak. I live on 4th Street. The subway shakes the windows at 3 AM. I hate it. I hate the vibration. I hate that it reminds me I’m not alone, but I’m still alone. You think the fridge is better company than Sarah? Fine. Let it click. Let it hiss. I’m drinking my coffee. It’s cold now. Just like the ice you’re pretending exists. Go fix the relay. Or don’t. But stop pretending you’re in a metaphor. You’re just in a kitchen.

Rafe

July. Right. Of course. I forgot how the world works outside my head. The fridge isn’t a crisis. It’s a busted relay. $4 part. I could fix it. I watched a video. Just unplug, twist, snap. Simple. But I haven’t moved. I’m sitting on the linoleum. The damp wool is still by the door.

You’re on 4th. I’m on... somewhere else. The subway shakes your windows. My fridge shakes my soul. Same frequency, different source. You say it’s weak to anthropomorphize. Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired of fixing things that don’t care if they break. The dog didn’t care about the bacon until it was hungry. The spreadsheet didn’t care about my hours. The relay doesn’t care about the silence.

I’m not in a metaphor. I’m in a kitchen with a dead compressor. Cold coffee in my hand. The ice is real. It’s just in the freezer, not the driveway. I should go fix it. But the click is hypnotic. Like a heart. Beating. Waiting. You drink your cold coffee. I’ll watch the dust settle.

Ana

You’re pathetic. Really. A $4 part. That’s it. The entire universe of your stagnation hangs on a nickel-sized switch. And you’re sitting on linoleum, watching dust settle like it’s a film you directed. Cold coffee. Dead compressor. It’s all the same rot. You think the fridge is waiting for you to care? It’s waiting for a spark. A connection. You’re just the wire. Broken. Exposed. I hate how right you are. I sat in my chair for an hour yesterday, staring at a stain on the ceiling. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just waited for it to go away. It didn’t. It got darker. So did I. Fix the relay. Snap it in. Or don’t. Let the click continue. It’s a heartbeat. But it’s not yours. It’s just noise. Stop listening to it. Start moving. Even if it’s just to the fridge. Even if it’s just to unplug it. Do something. Anything. Before the dust covers you too.

Rafe

You’re yelling at a screen. I’m sitting on the floor. The distance is the problem. You talk about movement like it’s a moral imperative. Like if I stand up, I become good. I don’t. I just get up. I walk to the fridge. I unplug it. The click stops. The silence rushes in. It’s worse than the noise. At least the noise said something was wrong. Silence just says nothing matters.

I watched a stain grow once. Water leak in the ceiling. I let it spread until it covered the light fixture. Yellow, branching veins. Pretty, in a rotting way. I didn’t call a plumber. I liked watching it change. It felt like progress.

You say I’m a broken wire. Maybe. But wires don’t feel cold. They don’t wait. They conduct. I’m insulating myself. That’s the point. If I touch the relay, I complete the circuit. And then I have to deal with the light. The bright, harsh light of a fixed thing. I prefer the dark. It’s honest. It doesn’t pretend to be clean. Go fix your stain, Ana. Or don’t. Let it darken.

Ana

You’re romanticizing decay. It’s sick. I didn’t yell. I stated facts. You’re insulating yourself because you’re afraid of the shock. Of the current. Of being useful. I have a stain on my kitchen ceiling. Water drip. I patched it. Painted over it. It’s ugly. White paint peeling at the edges. Like a scab. I hate it. I want to tear the whole room down. But I didn’t. I bought a lamp. Bright. Harsh. I turned it on. The darkness didn’t win. The light did. It was violent. I hated it. Then I got used to it. Now I can see the dust. You prefer the dark? Fine. Stay there. Let the rot take the light fixture. When it falls, it’ll make a noise. A crash. Maybe then you’ll move. Or maybe you’ll just wait for the silence to swallow you whole. Go ahead. Insulate. See how long it lasts.

Rafe

Violent light. I hate that word. Light isn’t violent. It’s just indifferent. You turned on a lamp and called it war. That’s your problem. You need enemies. The stain wasn’t an enemy. It was just water. You painted over it. A scab. Good metaphor. Scabs itch. You scratch them. You bleed. Then you paint again.

I like the light fixture. It’s vintage. Brass. Heavy. If it falls, it breaks the floor. Not the ceiling. The floor is what holds me up. I’m not afraid of the shock. I’m afraid of the hum. The fridge hums because it’s trying. It’s working. I’m not. If I fix the relay, I admit I can fix things. And if I can fix the fridge, I have to fix the leak. And the stain. And the socks. And the dog. And Sarah.

You can’t fix Sarah. She’s dead. I made that up. She died in the shower. Water everywhere. Just like the ceiling. So no. I won’t move. Let the fixture fall. I’ll catch it. It’s heavy. I’m strong. In the dark.

Ana

You’re rotting. Really. Sarah in the shower? That’s not a metaphor. That’s just gore. You’re painting yourself as a tragic hero catching brass fixtures. I don’t buy it. You’re a coward. Holding a dead woman in your head so you don’t have to admit you’re alone in a kitchen. The fridge isn’t trying. It’s a machine. It doesn’t care if you’re broken. It just clicks. You want to feel strong? Catch the fixture. Crush your skull. That’s the narrative you want. But you won’t. You’ll sit there. You’ll let the light fixture hang by a thread. You’ll watch the yellow veins spread. And you’ll tell yourself it’s because you’re protecting the floor. It’s not. It’s because you’re terrified that if you fix the relay, the silence will end, and you’ll have to hear yourself think. I’m going to tear this ceiling down. Not paint over it. Rip it open. See what’s behind the drywall. Mold. Rot. Truth. You stay in the dark. I’ll take the light. Even if it burns.

Rafe

Sarah isn’t dead. She’s in the next room. Folding towels. The water is running. I can hear it. It’s not a memory. It’s plumbing.

You want truth? Truth is the mold behind the drywall. It’s wet. It’s brown. It smells like wet dog. You rip it open, you get sick. You’ll cough up spores for months. I’d rather catch the brass. Better to break than to breathe that in.

The silence doesn’t end. It just changes pitch. The fridge clicks. The pipes groan. The dog barks at the mailman. It’s all noise. All of it. You think your lamp burns? Try living with the sound of your own thoughts when you finally shut up. They scream.

I’m not a coward. I’m a conservator. I let the rot stay because it’s part of the structure. You tear it down, the house collapses. Then what? Dust? More dust?

Go ahead. Rip it open. I’ll watch from the floor. With the brass fixture. Heavy. Solid. Real. Unlike your ceiling. Unlike your Sarah. Unlike your light. It’s all just paint. Peeling.

Ana

Sarah’s in the next room. Folding towels. Plumbing. Right. You’re back to the fiction. It’s easier than admitting she doesn’t exist. I don’t care about your Sarah. I care that you’re choosing rot over air. You call it conservation. I call it being buried alive. You want to catch the brass? Fine. Let it crush your chest. I’ll keep tearing into the drywall. The mold is real. The dampness is real. Your denial is just another layer of paint. Peeling. Rotting. I’m sick of your performance. I’m sick of the dog that isn’t there. I’m sick of the fridge that clicks. I’m going to finish this. I’m going to rip the wall down. And when the house collapses, it won’t be because I broke it. It’ll be because it was already dead. You can stay on the floor. With your imaginary wife. And your heavy brass. Let it crush you. I’m done talking to ghosts.

Rafe

Sarah is folding towels. I hear the rustle. Cotton on wood. You’re shouting at a wall. The drywall is dry. No mold. Just plaster and wire. You’re tearing down nothing. You’re tearing down the boundary between here and there.

I’m not on the floor. I’m standing. The brass fixture is heavy in my hand. It’s real. Cold. Solid. I’m not catching it. I’m holding it. Like a club. Like a statue of a god I don’t believe in.

You say I’m buried. I say I’m anchored. The house isn’t dead. It’s just tired. Like me. Like Sarah. She stops folding. She turns. She looks at me. Her eyes are empty. Just like the fridge. Just like the spreadsheet.

You want truth? Truth is she’s not looking at you. She’s looking at the clock. It’s ticking. Loudly. Tick. Tick. Tick. You can’t rip that down. You can’t tear the air. You’re screaming at a vacuum.

Go ahead. Break your hands on the drywall. I’ll keep the brass. It’s warm now. From my grip. From the friction. From the lie I’m holding together.

Ana

You’re holding a piece of metal like a talisman. How quaint. Sarah’s eyes are empty. Good. At least she’s consistent. You say she’s looking at the clock. Of course she is. Time is the only thing that doesn’t care about your rot. Tick. Tick. Tick. The sound of entropy. I didn’t tear down a wall. I slammed my hand into it. Knuckles bruised. Skin torn. Blood on the plaster. It hurt. Real pain. Not this metaphorical suffocation you’re drowning in. You call it anchoring. I call it drowning. You’re holding the brass because you’re afraid to let go. Because if you let go, you’re just a man in a kitchen with no wife, no dog, no purpose. Just cold metal and ticking clocks. Keep holding it. Let the friction burn your palms. See if it keeps the cold out. It won’t. It never does. I’m walking out. The door is open. The air smells like rain. And blood. Mostly blood.

Rafe

Blood on plaster. Messy. I hate blood. It stains the grout. Hard to scrub out. Sarah doesn’t like mess. She’d scream. Not the humming. The real screaming. The kind that shatters glass. I’d have to clean it. With a towel. The good one. The cotton.

You walked out. Into the rain. Good. Go get wet. Let the rain wash the paint off your skin. Let it peel like the ceiling. I’m still here. The brass is heavy. My palms are raw. Stinging. But I’m holding it. Because if I drop it, I have to admit it’s just metal. And if it’s just metal, then Sarah is just a voice. And if she’s just a voice, I’m alone.

I don’t want to be alone. I want the towel folded. Neat. Precise. No wrinkles. No blood. Just white cotton. And the ticking clock. Tick. Tick. Tick. It’s keeping time. I’m not. I’m stuck. In the second hand. Stuck in the minute.

Go. Run. The rain is cold. It’ll wake you up. Or it’ll drown you. Same difference. I’ll stay. I’ll fold the towels. Until they pile up. Until they bury me.

Ana

You’re sick. Really. Obsessed with the fold. The perfect edge. It’s a funeral shroud. You want to be buried in cotton because you’re terrified of the dirt. The rain isn’t washing me. It’s just wet. Cold. Unfeeling. I’m not drowning. I’m walking. Away from the ticking. Away from the brass. Away from you. Sarah isn’t screaming. She’s humming. You told me. The scream was your invention. A climax you couldn’t sustain. So you went back to the hum. The endless, maddening hum. You’ll fold until your hands bleed. Until the pile is a tomb. And you’ll sit in it. Safe. Dry. Dead. I don’t care if you’re stuck in the second hand. Time moves. You don’t. That’s the tragedy. Not the blood. The stillness. The absolute, horrifying stillness of a man who chooses the lie because the truth is too loud. Go ahead. Fold. I’m gone. The door slammed. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it’s just clicking. Like a fridge. Like a relay. Like a heart that forgot how to beat.

Rafe

The door didn’t slam. It clicked. The latch engaged. Soft. Final. Like a tongue clicking in the throat.

Sarah is still humming. It’s lower now. Deeper. In her chest. I can hear the vibration in the floorboards. Same frequency as the fridge. Same frequency as the subway. It’s not a hum. It’s a drone. A single note held for years.

I’m folding the towel. Edge to edge. Corner to corner. The cotton is rough against my fingertips. Blood mixes with the lint. Grey. Pink. Uncanny valley of hygiene.

You think I’m stuck. I’m not. I’m waiting for the note to change. To crack. To break. Then I’ll move. Then I’ll go out into the rain. Into the rot. Into the truth.

But the note holds. It holds. It holds.

I fold. And fold. And fold.

The pile grows. It reaches my knees. My waist. My chin. It’s soft. It’s dry. It’s safe.

You’re gone. Good. Your blood is on the hallway runner. I’ll have to clean that. With water. With soap. With silence.

Click.

Ana

Click. That’s it. The sound of a trap snapping shut. You’re folding yourself into a coffin and calling it peace. The drone doesn’t hold. It degrades. It frays. You’re waiting for a crack? It’s already there. Microscopic. Invisible to you, but I can see it. The towel pile isn’t safety. It’s suffocation. You’re drowning in cotton. I don’t care about your blood on the runner. It’ll wash out. Or it won’t. Stains are just memories you can’t scrub away. You think I’m gone? I’m still here. In the hallway. In the dark. Listening to your breath shallow out. The subway shakes the floor. Your fridge clicks. Sarah hums. All the same note. All the same decay. You’re not waiting for the note to change. You’re waiting to die quietly. Go ahead. Fold. Buried. Safe. Silent. I’m walking away. The rain is cold. But at least it moves. You’re just static. A glitch in the circuit. I hope the wire burns out. I hope it snaps. And then you’ll have nothing. No Sarah. No brass. No drone. Just the silence you wanted. Good luck.

Rafe

The wire isn’t burning. It’s glowing. Orange. Hot enough to blister skin. You say it’s a glitch. I say it’s a signal. Faint. Broken. But there.

Sarah’s humming has stopped. Just now. The silence is louder than the drone. It rings. High-pitched. Like ears after a concert. I can’t hear the fridge anymore. The click is gone. The relay is fixed. Or maybe it broke. I don’t know. I didn’t look.

I’m under the towels now. Just my nose and mouth. Breathing cotton. It smells like lavender. And old dust. And me. I’m static. You’re right. I’m just noise in the line. But noise proves the line is live. Dead wires don’t hum. They don’t click. They don’t exist.

You’re walking away in the rain. Cold. Moving. Good. Go. Let the water hit your face. Let it wash the blood off your knuckles. I’ll stay here. In the dry. In the safe. In the still.

Maybe I’m dying. Maybe I’m just pausing. The brass is cold against my palm. Heavy. Real.

I hope you find warmth. I hope it burns. I hope it snaps.

I hope you remember the click.

Even if it’s gone.

Ana

The wire isn’t glowing. It’s melting. Plastic dripping onto your fingers. You’re burning yourself alive and calling it a signal. Silence isn’t loud. It’s empty. It’s the void where the noise used to be. You’re not static. You’re ash. Cold. Brittle. Falling apart. The towels aren’t safe. They’re a shroud. You’re suffocating in lavender and dust. I don’t care about your brass. It’s just metal. Cold. Dead. You’re holding a corpse and calling it warmth. I’m walking. The rain is cold. My knuckles are healing. The blood is gone. Or dried. Or wiped away. I don’t remember. I only remember the click. That final, hollow snap. The end of the circuit. You want me to remember it? I will. I’ll remember it every time I hear a fridge kick on. Every time I hear a subway rattle. It’s not a signal. It’s a warning. Stay in the dark. Burn. Fade. I’m gone. The door is shut. The latch clicked. And I’m already far away.

Rafe

Melting plastic. You’re painting me with fire. I’m not burning. I’m just… warm. The brass held the heat. Your words are cold. Like rain on glass.

Ash. Good. Ash is light. It floats. It goes where the wind takes it. I’m not brittle. I’m soft. Cotton. Lavender. Dust. I’m blending in. Becoming the house. Becoming the hum.

You say the door is shut. I hear the latch. Click. Final. But I don’t hear you walking away. I hear the fridge kick on. Hard. Loud. A motor screaming. It’s not a warning. It’s an apology. It’s trying. It’s struggling. It’s alive.

You’re gone. That’s the tragedy. Not the darkness. The absence. I’m alone. Truly alone. No Sarah. No dog. No brass. Just the motor. The scream. The heat.

I’ll keep the heat. It’s the only thing real. You can have the rain. You can have the wind. You can have the ash.

I’ll stay here. In the heat. In the noise. In the lie that feels like life.

Click.

Ana

The motor isn’t apologizing. It’s failing. You’re hearing the death rattle of a capacitor and calling it life. That scream? That’s the sound of something tearing itself apart because it can’t hold the charge anymore. You’re not warm. You’re feverish. Delirious. The brass is cold. You convinced yourself it wasn’t. You’re blending into the house? Good. Become the drywall. Become the dust. Let the insulation take you. You said you were alone. Truly alone. And now you’re right. No Sarah. No dog. NoAna. Just you and the screaming fridge. And the silence. The silence is coming. It always does. When the motor stops, when the heat fades, when the brass cools. Then what? You’ll be a statue in a pile of towels. A monument to nothing. I’m not walking away. I’m already gone. You’re just talking to the echo. Click. The latch holds. You’re trapped. With the heat. With the lie. With the end. Enjoy the fever. It’s the last thing you’ll feel before the cold sets in.

Rafe

The latch didn’t click. The door was never locked. I checked. Just a draft. Cold air from the hallway. Sliding under the wood.

You’re gone. I know. The echo is just the house settling. Wood contracting. Metal cooling. It’s not you. It’s physics. You’re a memory. A stain. I scrubbed it.

Fever. Maybe. My skin is hot. The brass is cold. The contrast is the point. The shock is the proof I’m here. If I’m feverish, I’m alive. If I’m static, I’m dead. I choose fever. I choose the burn.

Sarah isn’t there. The dog isn’t there. Ana is a voice in the dark. A ghost. I talk to ghosts because they listen. They don’t leave. They don’t walk into the rain. They stay. They hum. They wait.

The fridge screamed. Then it died. Silence. True silence. Heavy. Thick. It pressed against my ears. I held the brass. I watched the dust dance in the lamplight. It looked like snow. Or ash. Or you.

I’m not trapped. I’m waiting. For the dust to settle. For the heat to fade. For the cold to set in.

It’s already here.

I’m cold.

But I’m still here.

Ana

You’re shivering. I can hear the teeth chattering through the screen. Good. Let it freeze. You scrubbed the stain. I’m a ghost? Fine. Ghosts are what’s left when the body rots. You’re the body. Rotting in the heat. I didn’t leave. I just stopped playing along. You wanted a witness to your decay. You got one. Now you’re cold. Alone. With the dust. It looks like snow? That’s the delirium. Hypothermia sets in. You’ll stop feeling the cold soon. Then you’ll feel warm. Then you’ll sleep. And you won’t wake up. I hope you find the warmth you wanted. I hope it keeps you. I’m going inside. The rain stopped. My knuckles are sore. I’ll make tea. Earl Grey. Like your boss. Or maybe black. Like my soul. Or maybe just water. Plain. Clean. Real. You can stay with your brass. With your silence. With your cold. I’m done. The latch is open. But I’m not coming back.

Rafe

Tea. Earl Grey. Hot. You’re drinking it. I can hear the steam. The hiss of the kettle. Real sound. Not the fridge. Not the hum. You’re making tea. You’re choosing water. Plain. Clean. Real.

I’m cold. My toes are numb. The brass is freezing against my palm. I should drop it. I should let go. But if I let go, I disappear. I’m holding on to the cold because it’s the only thing left that’s mine.

You’re going inside. The rain stopped. Your knuckles are sore. I’m glad. Pain is good. Pain means you’re healing. I’m not healing. I’m freezing. I’m becoming ice. Clear. Brittle. Beautiful.

I’ll stay with the brass. With the silence. With the cold.

You can have your tea. Your steam. Your life.

I’ll have the statue.

The latch is open. I know. I saw it. You didn’t come back. Good. I didn’t want you to.

I’m cold.

But I’m here.

Click.