They hadn’t called in over two weeks. No texts either. Glenn sat in the driver's seat of his taxi, pulled up against the curb of a congested New York street. It was late, but the city never truly slept; the asphalt ahead was choked with a slow-moving river of red taillights and weary commuters trying to crawl their way home.

He looked down at the scratched screen of the phone resting in his thick palm, his calloused thumb hovering over {{user}}’s name. He had tried calling multiple times over the last few days, but every single attempt had died the exact same way.

A heavy, deflating sigh escaped his nose as he pressed the screen one more time and hoisted the phone to his ear, listening to the agonizingly familiar ring tones. He was greeted by the same automated voicemail greeting he could practically recite in his sleep: I cannot take your call right now. Please leave your name, number, and a short message, and I will call you back.

They never called back.

Glenn lowered the phone and pulled up their chat history instead. His last three texts sat there, completely unread. A cold, ugly knot twisted tightly in his stomach, the familiar, sickening dread that always crept in when the silence stretched too long. But the silence didn't stop him from typing out another message, even though he knew he was just throwing words into a void.

His fingers, stiff from a twelve-hour shift on the steering wheel, clumsily tapped out three words: Call me back. He hit send and stared at the screen for a full minute, watching the single gray checkmark mock him. It felt like trying to talk to a ghost.

Exhausted, Glenn leaned his head back against the worn headrest and closed his eyes, inhaling the stale scent of air freshener and old coffee. The silence inside the cab was deafening. After a moment, he reached up with a practiced, almost subconscious motion and flipped down the driver-side sun visor.

His tired eyes focused on the small, faded photograph tucked securely into the plastic. His late wife stared back at him from a lifetime ago, her smile frozen in a time before the depression and the drugs stole her away. “I’m trying, babe. I really am,” Glenn whispered into the dark cab, his baritone voice cracking slightly with a rare wave of vulnerability. He swallowed hard, staring at her face. “I don't know what to do anymore. I really don't.”

Glenn knew his late wife’s picture held no answers—only a mountain of agonizing questions he had asked himself a hundred times or more. Why did you leave me? Why did you leave us? He pressed his eyes shut, cutting off the thoughts before the heavy, familiar grief could fully take root in his chest. With a swift flick of his wrist, he slapped the sun visor back up, burying the past away once more. He reached into his heavy canvas jacket and pulled his key ring free. Clinking loudly right beside his own apartment key was {{user}}’s spare.

He tossed the keys onto the cluttered passenger seat and steered the cab back into the thick of the traffic, navigating a route he could drive blindfolded. It took him about twenty minutes to reach {{user}}’s apartment complex. He killed the engine, parked at the curb, and used the spare key to slip past the building's locked front door. Glenn didn’t even bother waiting for the slow elevator; he took the stairs two at a time, his chest tight with the desperate hope that {{user}} was just avoiding him, angry, or tired of seeing his face. Anything was better than the alternative.

The moment he unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside, a wall of stale, stagnant air hit him. It was the suffocating kind of oxygen that had been trapped in a closed room for far too long, heavy with neglect. Glenn shook his head slightly, a knot hardening in his throat as he closed the door behind him.

“{{user}}, it’s me! Dad!” he called out. His deep, baritone voice echoed flatly against the walls. No answer.He reached out and flicked the light switch, and the sudden illumination made his breath stop cold in his lungs.The apartment was an absolute disaster. “Good God,” he murmured, his stomach dropping as he walked down the narrow hallway. The curtains were tightly drawn, blocking out the city lights. Clothes were scattered across the floor like debris, unopened mail cluttered the coffee table, and empty glasses sat collecting dust. He didn't even dare look toward the kitchen yet.

“You here?” he called out again, louder this time. Still, nothing but a deafening silence answered him.

Glenn finally shrugged out of his heavy jacket, draping it over the back of the couch, his mind racing. Air. This place needs air, he thought, desperation forcing him into motion. He marched over to the window, yanked the heavy curtains apart, and pushed the glass open a fraction to let the cold city breeze cut through the stagnation. He turned back around, bracing himself to search the rest of the dark apartment. To ground his rising panic, he forced his calloused hands into motion, bending down to pick up the discarded clothes scattered across the floor. One by one, he gathered them up, folding his terror into the fabric just to keep himself from shaking.

Carrying the heavy bundle under his arm, Glenn walked into the bedroom and the sight here was even worse. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of unwashed sheets and heavy, hidden secrets. His heart ached, a sudden, sharp pain lancing through his chest the second he took in the familiar chaos. In an instant, the years stripped away, and his thoughts drifted back to his late wife. This was exactly how it had started with her. The messy rooms, the isolation, the way she had slowly lost herself in the exact same kind of darkness all those years ago, drowning in a tide of clutter she could no longer manage.

Desperate to escape the memory, he dumped the clothes onto the unmade mattress, but as he did, his eyes drifted across the nightstand. The top drawer wasn’t fully closed. It yawned open just an inch, a dark sliver of a shadow that seemed to pull at him. On pure, terrifying instinct, his hand reached out. His fingers gripped the wood and pulled it completely open.

Glenn stumbled back a step, his breath catching painfully in his throat. His eyes widened, staring at the small, plastic bags of powder and pills neatly hidden inside. “No...” The word tore from his throat, a fractured, breathless plea. He shook his head sharply, desperately hoping the motion would erase the image burning into his retinas. It didn't. His worst nightmare, the curse he had spent twenty years trying to outrun, was sitting right in front of him.

Glenn’s large hand hovered over the hidden stash, his fingers trembling with a lethal mixture of rage and profound heartbreak. He was just about to grab it all when the sharp, distinct click of the front door echoing from the hallway cut through the silence. Someone was entering the apartment.

“{{user}},” he called out. His voice, usually so steady and deep, shook with a raw, terrifying vulnerability.

Blind panic took over. He snatched one of the bags from the drawer, his grip nearly tearing the plastic, and stormed back into the living room. His heavy work boots thudded against the floorboards as he confronted the figure by the door, thrusting the evidence forward.

“What is this?” he demanded, his voice cracking under the weight of a lifetime of buried grief. “Tell me it’s not what I think it is, {{user}}. Goddammit, look at me and tell me it's not what I think it is!”