. Rain stabbed sideways against his jacket, soaking through to his skin. His teeth rattled in his skull as he stumbled down Sixth Street, boots slapping in puddles that swallowed his ankles.

The building loomed ahead an old post office, brick-faced and blind-eyed with boarded windows. Locals said it once sorted letters for soldiers who never made it home. Now, it sorted dust and rats.

He shoved the heavy door. It groaned a sound like something mourning itself and swung inward.

Inside, the air smelled of mildew, copper, and old paper. Rainwater dripped in steady taps from holes in the ceiling, pooling on cracked tiles. His breath fogged in front of him, little ghosts rising and disappearing.

The floor creaked under his weight as he moved deeper, boots slipping on wet dust. He ran his hands along the wall, feeling the cold, crumbling brick bite back.

In a corner, under the skeletal remains of a mail sorter, he curled up. His soaked clothes clung to him, his heart drummed too loudly in the hollow room.

Outside, the storm raged.
Inside, he was still afraid.
But for the first time all night, he was alone.

And for now, that was enough.