The rain hits the window. It is cold. I am here.

I sit in the chair. It is old wood. The fabric is worn. I look at my hand. It rests on my knee. The skin is tight. The veins are blue. I am far from home. The city is loud. The city is gray.

My name is Elias. I am new here. The air smells of coal and wet stone. It smells of something that is not mine. I have been in this room for three days. I do not sleep. I watch the glass.

There is a man in the street below. He wears a coat. It is long and black. He stands still. He watches the door. He has been there since morning. I see him through the pane. His face is hidden. He is a shadow.

I feel a knot in my throat. It is tight. I try to breathe. The air is thin. I am a stranger. I am a ghost. The walls are thin. I hear the neighbors. They move. They talk. Their voices are low. They are normal. They are safe.

I am not safe.

I look at my hand again. The fingers are long. They are pale. I remember the war. I remember the mud. I remember the sound. It is not a sound. It is a silence. A heavy silence. It sits on my chest. I carry it with me. It is in my bones.

The man in the street moves. He turns. He leaves. I watch him go. He walks fast. He disappears into the fog. The street is empty. The rain is hard. It blurs the world.

I stand up. My legs are weak. I go to the window. I press my forehead against the glass. It is cold. The cold is good. It wakes me. I am alive. I am here.

A knock comes. It is soft. It is gentle. I do not move. I wait. The knock comes again. It is louder. It is urgent.

I go to the door. I open it.

A woman stands there. She is tall. She has dark hair. It is wet. She holds an umbrella. It is broken. She looks at me. Her eyes are brown. They are deep.

"Are you Elias?" she asks.

I do not answer. I look at her. I do not know her. I do not know why I am afraid. I do not know why my heart beats fast.

"Yes," I say. My voice is low. It is rough.

She steps inside. She does not ask. She closes the door. She looks around the room. She looks at the chair. She looks at the window.

"You look tired," she says.

"I am fine," I say.

She smiles. It is small. It is sad.

"I am Martha," she says. "I live next door."

I nod. I do not speak. I feel a wall between us. It is thick. It is made of fear. I do not trust her. I do not trust anyone.

She sits on the bed. The bed is small. The sheets are white. They are clean. I like that. I like clean things.

"Your neighbor said you had been here a while," Martha says. "He said you do not eat. He said you do not sleep."

I look at the floor. The floor is wood. It is dark.

"I am busy," I say.

She laughs. It is a soft sound. It is like a bird.

"You are not busy," she says. "You are hiding."

I look at her. I want to leave. I want to close the door. I want to be alone. But I stay. I sit in the chair. I watch her.

She takes out a handkerchief. It is white. She wipes her face. She looks at me.

"I heard the news," she says. "About the bombing. In the south."

I do not answer. I know what she means. I was there. I saw it. I saw the fire. I saw the smoke. I saw the people. They were like ash. They were gone.

I am not gone. I am here. But I am not me. I am a piece of me. I am broken.

"Why did you come?" I ask.

My voice is harsh. It is like stone.

Martha does not flinch. She does not move. She looks at me.

"I came to help," she says.

I laugh. It is a dry sound. It is like leaves.

"Help?" I say. "With what?"

"With your silence," she says. "With your fear."

I stand up. I walk to the window. The rain is harder now. It hammers the glass. I look at the street. It is empty. The world is gray.

"I have done bad things," I say. I do not look at her. I look at the rain.

"I know," she says.

I turn to look at her. My eyes are wide. My heart is fast.

"You do not know," I say. "You do not know what I have seen. You do not know what I have done."

She stands up. She walks to me. She stops. She is close. I can smell her. She smells of soap and rain.

"I know," she says again. Her voice is low. It is soft. It is gentle. "I know because I see it in your eyes. I see it in your hands."

I look at my hands. They are trembling. I clench them. I make fists. The skin is tight.

"I am not a monster," I say.

"No," she says. "You are a man. You are hurt."

I feel a tear. It is hot. It rolls down my cheek. I wipe it away. I do not want her to see. I do not want to be weak.

"I am tired," I say.

"I know," she says.

She puts her hand on my arm. It is warm. It is soft. I do not pull away. I let her touch me. It is the first touch I have felt in a long time. It is strange. It is real.

I look at her. I see her face. It is kind. It is calm. She is not afraid of me. She is not angry. She is just there.

I am not a monster. I am a man. I am hurt.

I look at the window. The rain is slowing. The sky is light. It is gray, but it is light.

"Thank you," I say.

She smiles. She steps back. She walks to the door. She opens it. The street is quiet.

"I will come back," she says. "Tomorrow. If you want."

I nod. I do not speak. I close the door. I lean against it. I slide down. I sit on the floor.

I am alone. But I am not empty. I am here. I am alive.

The day passes. I do not eat. I do not sleep. I sit in the chair. I watch the clock. The hands move. They are slow. They are fast. I do not know.

Martha does not come. I wait. I hope. I fear.

The night comes. The dark is heavy. The city is quiet. I hear the wind. It sings. It is a sad song.

I look at my hand. It is still. It is calm. The fear is still there. But it is smaller. It is quieter.

I remember the war. I remember the mud. I remember the sound. But I also remember the touch. I remember the warmth. I remember her eyes.

I am not a monster. I am a man.

The morning comes. The light is soft. It is yellow. It is warm.

I hear a knock. It is soft. It is gentle.

I go to the door. I open it.

Martha is there. She has a basket. It is full. It has bread. It has milk. It has cheese.

She smiles. She looks at me.

"Good morning," she says.

I look at her. I look at the basket. I take it. It is heavy. It is real.

"Thank you," I say.

She steps inside. She looks around. She sees the chair. She sees the window.

"You look better," she says.

I do not say anything. I walk to the table. I put the basket down. I break the bread. The crust is hard. The inside is soft. It is warm.

I eat. I chew. I swallow. It is good. It is life.

Martha sits. She watches me. She does not speak. She does not need to. We are together. We are quiet.

I eat the bread. I drink the milk. I feel full. I feel strong.

I look at Martha. She is not a stranger. She is not a ghost. She is a woman. She is real.

I am not a monster. I am a man.

The rain has stopped. The sun is out. It shines through the window. It hits the floor. It hits my face.

It is warm.

I am here. I am home.

The city is loud. The city is gray. But it is not cold. It is not empty.

I am not alone.

I look at my hand. It is open. The fingers are relaxed. The skin is pale. But it is alive.

I am alive.

The day goes on. I eat. I speak. I listen.

Martha talks. She talks about the shop. She talks about the neighbors. She talks about the rain.

I listen. I nod. I smile.

It is small. It is simple. But it is real.

I am not a monster. I am a man.

The fear is still there. It is in my bones. It is in my blood. But it is not the master. It is not the king.

It is a guest. And I am the host.

I can let it stay. Or I can ask it to leave.

I ask it to leave.

I look at Martha. She is kind. She is calm. She is safe.

I trust her.

I trust myself.

The story is not over. The road is long. The city is big. The world is wide.

But I am here. I am now.

I am Elias.

I am alive.