The door creaked open, and Artur stepped inside.
His room—simple, familiar—felt foreign now. Too quiet. Too still. Like it knew something had changed.
He walked in without turning on the light.
His hands moved on instinct—pulling the small travel bag from beneath his bed, placing it gently on the sheets.
He opened his closet, grabbed the essentials: shirts, jeans, that sweater Billy always stole on cold nights and claimed as his own.
He held it in his hands a moment longer than the others.
His breath trembled as he folded it carefully and placed it at the top.
The drawer next—he opened it, searching for something. Then he paused.
Tucked beneath the neatly folded clothes was a faded photograph—one Mr. Dand had taken without them knowing.
Billy and Artur, sitting under the tree by the lake. Billy's head tilted back, laughing. Artur looking at him like he was the only thing worth seeing.
Artur stared at it for a long moment.
Then he slipped it into his bag—close, safe.
