Work at the store ended late. Tomas rarely stayed long in one job—stores, warehouses, factories—anywhere that needed extra hands. He went wherever work called, earned enough to survive, then moved on. It paid the bills, nothing more. The routine drained him. Nothing sparked joy. Nothing held meaning. He walked through the fluorescent-lit aisles, folding boxes, stacking shelves, and counting the minutes until he could leave. Each repetition felt hollow, a reflection of all the days before and all the days yet to come.
He walked home through familiar streets, head lowered, shoulders tense. The neon sign of Obsidian buzzed softly as he passed, its flickering red glow pulsing like blood beneath the skin, a rhythmic heartbeat he couldn't ignore. The wet pavement reflected the sign, broken into shards of red that shimmered with the rain yet to come.
"Come to Obsidian… I'll repay you more than enough."
Laura's words echoed in his mind.
He stopped, staring at the entrance.
I don't need gratitude. Point three is complete. No more pointless conversations.
He turned and kept walking, the sound of his boots splashing in small puddles merging with the distant hum of the city.
Rain began to fall—slow, cold drops at first, deliberate. Within a minute, the sky opened, drenching the street. Tomas didn't bother to run. His hair plastered to his forehead, jacket soaked through, every step heavier than the last. The cold soaked through to his skin, sharp and biting, but he felt no urgency, no irritation—only the weight of another meaningless day pressing down.
At home, he stripped off his wet clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a tangled heap. He pulled on dry sweatpants and went to the kitchen, the tiles cool under his bare feet. The fridge was nearly empty. Instant noodles. A stale piece of bread. Good enough. He set water to boil, listening to the soft hiss as it began to heat. The kitchen was quiet, bare, functional. He glanced around—empty counters, a single mug, a chipped plate—and felt nothing, nothing but routine and the faint ache of solitude.
A sudden knock shattered the quiet—sharp, urgent.
Tomas opened the door.
Laura stood there, drenched from head to toe. Her hair clung to her face, clothes plastered to her shivering body. A small, worn backpack hung from one shoulder. Her eyes were wide—ashamed, exhausted, raw with vulnerability.
"I… I don't have anywhere else to go," she whispered, voice trembling. "Could you let me stay just one more night? I'm sorry… you already helped me so much. I shouldn't ask for more."
She lowered her gaze, fingers twisting together.
Tomas studied her. It must have taken everything she had just to knock. Her small, soaked frame pressed against the doorframe, vulnerable yet unbroken.
He raised a hand and pressed it lightly to her forehead. She flinched at the touch, startled.
"You have a fever," he said simply. "Come in."
He stepped aside. She entered. The door closed with a muted click.
"Do you have dry clothes?"
"Yes… in my backpack."
"Change. Then lie down. I'll bring tea."
She looked at him, startled. There was quiet certainty in his voice—unexpected gentleness beneath that cold, unreadable exterior.
"T-thank you," she whispered.
She changed quickly, shivering as she did, and then lay down, pulling the blanket over herself. The dampness from the rain still clung to her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. She curled slightly, trying to gather warmth in the small cocoon of fabric.
Tomas returned with a cup of warm tea sweetened with honey and a bowl of instant noodles—the only meal the apartment could offer. Steam rose lazily, curling around the edges of the blanket, warming the small space with a fragile sense of comfort.
"I don't have anything else," he said.
She smiled faintly but sincerely.
"For me… this is perfect," she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of relief.
He sat on the edge of the bed, observing her in silence. The apartment was dim but tidy enough to breathe. Outside, the rain continued to drum softly against the window, rhythmic and unyielding. The muffled sound was oddly comforting, a steady background for this fragile calm.
After a moment, she asked softly, "Do you… want to ask me something?"
Tomas answered slowly, choosing his words carefully.
"I live alone. I'm rarely home—different jobs. If you want, you can stay until you find somewhere better. One rule: don't bring anyone here. I don't like people."
Her eyes filled instantly. A quiet sob escaped before she wiped it away. The tension in her shoulders softened slightly.
"Thank you… I won't bring anyone. I promise. My family… it's just me." She hesitated. "I move a lot. Never stay anywhere long. I work as a waitress at Obsidian. That night was my day off. The place I rented… the neighbor—he tried to touch me. I was afraid to go back. I'll pay rent. I swear."
She didn't tell him why she was always running.
Tomas stood and collected her cup and bowl. He placed a tube of ointment beside her.
"Use that on your leg. It'll heal faster. And remember—don't bring anyone here. I'm not interested in anything else. Try to sleep. Your fever should break by morning. Good night."
His voice was flat, drained of emotion.
"Mhm… good night," she whispered.
The door closed behind him.
Laura lay awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
Why are his eyes so cold? she wondered. As if nothing in this world matters to him. And yet… he helped me. Protected me. Offered me a home.
I don't know if I can trust him. But I owe him something. Somehow. Tomorrow… I'll think of something.
On the sofa, Tomas stared blankly at the ceiling.
Why did I tell her she could stay?
He didn't know.
But when he thought of her, he felt warmth—and pain. A familiar pain. She was innocent, yet life kept striking her down.
Maybe that's why, he thought. Because I know what that feels like.
He closed his eyes, listening to the faint patter of rain outside.
---
Morning arrived quietly.
Laura's fever was gone. Strength had returned.
She rose carefully from the bed, moving slowly to avoid strain. The apartment was silent. The sofa neatly arranged. On the table lay a set of keys and a short note.
I left for work. I'll be back in the evening. Keep the keys. If you go out, lock the door.
She pressed the keys to her chest and smiled softly.
Strange… I haven't felt something like this in a long time.
Her gaze drifted around the apartment—the dust, scattered clothes, empty bottles, books strewn across the floor.
At least I can clean. He deserves that.
She worked for hours—collecting clothes, clearing trash, organizing shelves, wiping counters and windows. Dust vanished. Light returned. The apartment breathed again. Each surface polished, every corner clear, the apartment seemed lighter, almost alive with care.
Why so many medical books? she wondered. Was he a doctor once? He treated my injuries so professionally.
The front door opened.
Tomas stepped inside carrying two heavy bags of groceries—and froze.
The apartment was clean. Bright. Ordered.
Laura emerged from the kitchen, wearing an apron she'd found in the closet.
"Yes," she said with a laugh, eyes shining, "you're in the right apartment."
Tomas stared, speechless.
"You must be tired," he finally said. "That's a lot of work."
"It was," she admitted cheerfully. "But I wanted to do something useful. To thank you for letting me stay. I can help with dinner, too."
He set the bags down slowly, still absorbing the change.
"I bought food," he said. "We can cook together."
And for the first time in a very long while—maybe years—Tomas smiled.
It was small. Quiet.
But Laura saw it.
And it warmed something deep inside her.