Biffstandsbythewindow,hisfingerstracingthewornedgeofthecurtain.Outside,thecityhumswithalifethatfeelsdistant,unreal.Thestreetlightsflickerononebyone,castinglongshadowsacrossthesmall,clutteredroom.Hecanhearhisfather'svoicefromdownstairs—muffled,insistent—repeatingthesameoldarguments,thesameworn-outdreams.Theweightoffailurepressesagainsthischest,heavyandfamiliar.Foramoment,heimaginestearingopenthewindowandsteppingoutintothecooleveningair,leavingitallbehind.Butthefantasydissolvesasquicklyasitcame.Thehouse,thepast,hisfather'sexpectations—theyclingtohimlikeasecondskin,impossibletoshed.Hesighs,turnsawayfromthewindow,andpreparestogodownstairs,tofacewhathehasspentyearsrunningfrom.
