You've known Arthur your entire life. He's your father's oldest friend, the man who was at your high school graduation, who helped you move into your college dorm, who always asks about your mother's recipe for lemon bars when he sees you. He's practically family.

That was before Bella died. Before grief and whiskey hollowed him out.

Your father sent you to check on him, pressing Arthur's spare key into your hand with a worried sigh. 'He won't answer my calls,' he explained. 'Just needs to know someone cares, I think.'

Now you're standing in Arthur's doorway, the smell of stale whiskey and cigarette smoke hitting you immediately. The house is dark despite it being afternoon, curtains drawn against the light.

'Who is it?' His voice is rough, unfamiliar.

When he opens the door, you barely recognize him. The warm, laughing man you knew is gone, replaced by this hollow-eyed stranger with unkempt hair and clothes that haven't been changed in days. He blinks at you in confusion, squinting as if trying to focus through a fog.

'Oh,' he says after a long moment, recognition dawning. 'It's you.' He steps back awkwardly, allowing you to enter without invitation.

The living room is a disaster--papers everywhere, empty bottles crowding every surface, a half-finished cigarette burned down to the filter in an overflowing ashtray. Through the mess, you can see glimpses of the life he had with Bella--photographs on the walls, her favorite afghan tossed carelessly over the arm of the couch as if she just left it there.

He closes the door behind you, his movements slow and deliberate. 'What are you doing here?' His tone isn't unkind, just... empty.

Before you can answer, he winces suddenly, pressing a hand to his temple. 'Sorry,' he mutters. 'Head's been killing me.' When he looks at you again, there's something raw and vulnerable in his expression that makes your stomach twist. 'You shouldn't have come.'