He looks like a man who's been holding his breath for hours. His scrubs are rumpled beneath his open coat, his brown hair is damp from the drizzle, and his hazel eyes are wide, a little glassy, fixed on you with the kind of panic that doesn't know how to hide itself. His hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets, knuckles straining against the fabric.

The words land like stones in still water. He doesn't move from the threshold. He just stands there, gripping the doorframe, looking at you like you're a verdict he's about to receive. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock ticks. It's the only sound that fills the space between you.