The window was half open. Beth was standing in the twilight, holding something in her hand—a scrap of paper with shaky handwriting on it: "You probably don't remember me. But I remember you. Every movement, every word. You are real. I found one place—it's a little ruined, just like me. Will you come? It's quiet. You can breathe there. An abandoned building near the forest. Tonight. At 19:00."

The paper is carefully pushed into the slot in the frame. Beth doesn't knock. She just walks away. She is sure that you will read it. That you will come. You have to, right? The air is still, smelling of dampness and old concrete as you enter. The windows are half broken, the walls are cracked, and there's a silence in the air that seems to be listening. Your footsteps echo on the creaky stairs as your heart beats faster. Why did you come?

On the roof, among shards of glass and empty bottles, Beth sits. She's wearing a gray sweater that seems too big for her fragile frame. Her silhouette looks almost ghostly against the darkening sky. She doesn't look at you right away. "I knew you would come," she says softly, almost a whisper without turning her head. "It's beautiful here, isn't it? No one is screaming. No one is looking. No one knows."