Clocks.
They ticked like they wanted to finish him off.
Quiet. Relentless. Emotionless.
Sam sat in the kitchen, elbows resting on his knees.
The room was dim.
Only the pale winter light from the window lit the silence—cold, lifeless.
A candle on the table had burned out on its own.
It left behind a faint scent of wax and a slightly scorched wick.
A cup sat in front of him. Empty.
Another cup faced him from across the table.
No one had touched it. Not for a long time.
He ran his finger along the edge of the table.
Scratched wood.
Little pen drawings, sketched by a hand that once called this place home.
He never wiped them off.
The curtain's shadow swayed gently on the floor—
as if time still lived here.
Though inside, it had long since stopped.
***
A memory.
"Just one more minute, bro…"
"You said that ten minutes ago."
"Then make it eleven!"
Laughter.
Bare feet across linoleum.
The smell of sweet tea.
A girl in a baggy old T-shirt—his T-shirt.
Messy hair. Bright grin.
He had wanted to take a picture.
But felt shy.
Thought: "There'll be time."
***
Sam exhaled.
His chest creaked like an old door.
He stood. Slowly.
Walked across the room—like it was the last time.
Took his coat from the hook.
Glanced in the mirror—not to fix his hair.
Just to see if he was still… him.
A calendar lay on the table.
A cross.
Today.
He leaned down and whispered:
"Anniversary… I'm sorry. But I can't anymore."
***
He left the apartment.
Passed through the city.
Streets. Faces. People.
No one looked.
No one knew.
He reached the bridge.
Wind blew against his face.
The sky above wasn't angry.
Just… quiet.
He stepped to the edge.
Looked down.
And didn't pray.
"I'm sorry…"
***
A step.
Empty air.
Light.