When Brian got back to his small rental house, the silence hit him harder than expected. He sat on the couch, staring at his duffel. The thought crept in—was drifting around pointlessly any better than dying for a reason? If he stayed, he'd sink right back into the same dull routine. So he reached for his phone and called Caitlyn.
She picked up fast. "Hey… how are you?" Her voice was warm and gentle.
"Kate," he sighed. "Can we talk Saturday? I'll come over."
"Of course," she said softly.
That weekend, Brian drove into Los Angeles. The skyscrapers glowed like glass towers of fire as he pulled up to a familiar old apartment complex. The red car stopped outside Building 4—his old home.
He walked up the narrow staircase, past the peeling paint and flickering lights, until he reached Room 114. The door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling from inside.
From within, a child's laughter rang out. "Mom, Dad's taking forever again!"
"He's probably getting you some candy, sweetheart," came a woman's voice—soft and kind, almost musical.
Brian hesitated, then slowly pushed the door open. A little boy sat at the dinner table, spoon in hand. When he saw Brian, his eyes went wide.
"Mom! There's someone here!"
The woman turned. She looked vaguely familiar—like a shadow of the past. "Oh, I'm sorry… can I help you?"
Brian blinked, lost for words. "Sorry. I—uh, must've got the wrong room."
"Oh, that's okay." She smiled politely.
He nodded, backing out and closing the door behind him. The sound of the lock clicking shut seemed louder than it should've been.
Brian rubbed his face and muttered under his breath, "What the hell are you doing, man?"
"Brian?" a voice called softly. He turned. Down the hall stood an old woman in a red hand-knit dress, her wrinkled face lighting up with recognition.
"Mrs. Sullivan," he said.
"Well, look at you! Buzz cut and all. You just look like your father." She chuckled, then pulled a small bundle of money from her purse—the one he'd sent her months ago. "Here, I never spent it."
He shook his head. "No, Mrs. Sullivan, please… I can't take that."
She smiled. "Your mother helped me more than once, you know. Always folding laundry with my niece, always smiling. You've got her eyes."
Brian's throat tightened. "Thank you… really."
She reached out and squeezed his hand. "We've always been rooting for you, son."
He tried to steady his voice, but it cracked anyway. "Th-thank you, ma'am."
"Oh, and I found a torn picture of you months ago while cleaning. It's in my purse if you—"
He interrupted gently. "No, keep it. Please."
He gave her one last hug before heading down the hallway. "Goodbye, Mrs. Sullivan."
"Come visit sometime, sweetheart," she called after him. He waved without turning back, the echo of her voice following him out into the quiet Los Angeles night.