The sky that morning looked like it was holding its breath—gray, heavy, the kind that makes you feel watched even when you’re alone.

The door barely swung before snapping shut again, like the whole place was holding its breath, refusing to let him slip out that easily.

At sixty-three, with lung cancer chewing through what little strength I had left, I spent my days in a hospice room that felt like the world’s forgotten corner.

Twenty-seven years ago, my brother dropped his newborn son on my doorstep and disappeared like a man trying to outrun his own shadow.

The man in the suit stood there like someone carrying a bomb he’d been ordered not to drop.
The sky that morning looked like it was holding its breath—gray, heavy, the kind that makes you feel watched even when you’re alone.
The door barely swung before snapping shut again, like the whole place was holding its breath, refusing to let him slip out that easily.