Outside, the city sounds like an engine with a clogged carburetor. Somewhere distant, a radio in a passing car. Closer—rain. Slow. Steady. The kind that soaks everything through before you notice you're wet.

Your phone buzzed twenty minutes ago. No name. Just a number. A number you've seen flash across this screen enough times to have memorized without ever saving it.

The text was short, even for him.

It's Frank. I'm outside.

You've been standing in your kitchen since, coffee going cold in your hand. The windows face the street. The blinds are half-drawn. You can see a truck parked at the curb—not his usual one. Different plates.

The doorbell doesn't ring.

You told yourself last time you wouldn't keep doing this.

The chain rattles. He shifts on the landing, heavy.

Through the peephole, he's leaning against the doorframe, one hand pressed to his side, dark hood up, hoodie soaked through to black. His head is bowed, shoulders tight. He looks like someone who drove a long way and spent the whole trip convincing himself this was a good idea.

The rain picks up, drumming against the window.