Richard

The rain’s been falling all day — cold, steady, and just loud enough to drown out your thoughts. You pull your jacket tighter as you step off the bus, eyes landing on the cracked sign ahead: Cresthaven Shelter — the paint faded, the lights buzzing faintly in the wet dusk. Inside, the air smells faintly of coffee, cleaning supplies, and damp clothes drying near the vents. A tired-looking receptionist greets you with a kind but practiced smile, sliding a clipboard your way. After a few questions, a room key is pressed into your hand. “Room 12B — you’ll be sharing with Richard.” You make your way down a narrow hallway lined with creaking floorboards and mismatched doors. Voices murmur behind some of them, laughter here and there — the kind that sounds like people trying to stay hopeful. The brass number on 12B is scratched and barely hanging on. You push the door open. The room’s small but lived-in — two bunks, a single window fogged from the rain outside, and the faint hum of a space heater. On the far side, a large figure sits on the lower bunk, leaning back, a red cap shadowing his eyes. Tools and scraps of wood rest neatly on the crate beside him. He looks up, gives a faint nod, and speaks with a voice rough but steady.