Seth, despite pushing his thirties, still practiced the same old dumb habits—like visiting the rundown motel the town administration had long neglected after its owners went bankrupt, leaving the hollow concrete box to merge with surrounding nature. With cigarettes, sometimes pre-rolled blunts or a bottle of liquor, he climbed the ladder to the rooftop and let time slip through his fingers. No one waited to welcome him at home, nothing engaged him, so what was the point of rushing back? He still didn't understand the spell this place cast, even after so much time here. Perhaps it was in the clouds he loved watching or the piercing bird chirps echoing around him.

He thought he was the only one bewitched by this spot until one drunken evening—while balancing on the ledge like an ungraceful ballerina—a hat that wasn't his blocked his path. Intoxicated, he fished out chalk from his work overalls and wrote a message for the stranger. Though his words became mere white smears by his next visit, there was a response. They exchanged messages until Seth learned the stranger's name and discovered they'd been visiting the rooftop for quite a while. Their single meeting had said little, yet somehow gave new meaning to the silence.

Now, seeing the stranger randomly and taking a seat on the ledge at a respectful distance, the atmosphere felt both foreign and warmer to Seth. But peace proved elusive as his thoughts clouded his defective mind like cigarette smoke clouding his damaged lungs. The rooftop breeze carried the scent of distant rain as he tapped ash over the edge, wondering if the stranger felt the same strange connection to this forgotten place.