A Man Without Love
Excerpt I
The house had learned to hold its breath.
Rain gathered in the narrow seams of the street beyond the window, turning stone to mirror and lamplight into something softer, less certain. He stood without moving, not because he was waiting for anything in particular, but because stillness felt like a form of respect — for the hour, for the weather, for the quiet arrangement of objects that asked nothing of him.
The room was orderly without being careful. A chair rested where it had been left. A glass reflected more light than it contained. Everything suggested recent presence, yet nothing insisted upon it. He had come to recognize this balance as a kind of mercy.
Outside, footsteps passed and dissolved. Somewhere a door closed. The world continued, but at a polite distance.
He thought briefly of the things people mistook for decisiveness — motion, certainty, the visible act of choosing — and how little they resembled the private work of restraint. Some evenings asked not to be resolved, only acknowledged. He had learned to allow them that dignity.
When the rain softened, he remained where he was, letting the quiet settle back into its place, unchanged but newly earned.
