The rain was a relentless drummer on the corrugated iron roof, each drop a tiny hammer blow against a hollow world. Elias sat on the edge of the bed, the cheap mattress sagging beneath him, mirroring the slump of his shoulders. Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years he’d carried the weight of the world on his back, a stoic statue carved from granite, never cracking, never yielding. But tonight, the dam had broken.

The letter lay open on the worn wooden floorboards, the ink bleeding slightly from the dampness that had seeped in through the ill-fitting window. It was a simple note, penned in a familiar, shaky hand, a hand that had held his small one, taught him to ride a bike, and whispered bedtime stories into the darkness. "I'm sorry, my love," it read, "but I can't fight anymore." His mother, the anchor of his life, the unwavering lighthouse in his stormy sea, was gone.

A single tear traced a path down his weathered cheek, the first in what felt like an eternity. It was followed by another, and then another, until the silent room was filled with the sound of his ragged breaths and the steady drumming of his grief. The granite statue had finally crumbled, revealing the raw, vulnerable core beneath. He was just a man, after all, a son, utterly and irrevocably alone.