The rain pounds against the window as I stare at the empty chair across from me. It still holds the faint impression of where he sat last night, the ghost of his presence lingering like cigarette smoke in the air. My hands tremble as I reach for the coffee cup, the ceramic cold against my palms. I can still hear his voice, low and rough, whispering things I shouldn't want to remember. 'You can't run from this,' he'd said, and maybe he was right. The clock ticks toward midnight, and I know he'll return soon.