One hundred and twenty-one

The nights felt longer without her.

Not just long hollow.

Every sound in his apartment echoed too loud. The coffee pot hissed like static, the floorboards groaned like ghosts, and the silence pressed down until it felt like it might crack his ribs.

He’d tried to fill the hours with work, drills, anything. But even the firehouse didn’t feel the same. Every corner of it reminded him of her Jasmine standing at the door after his shift, barefoot, sunlight tangled in her hair; Jasmine laughing in his truck, teasing him for never smiling enough; Jasmine whispering don’t look at me like that when he did.

Now she was gone not out of town yet, but gone from his reach.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

Theo sat outside the old firehouse that had been shut down years ago, the one his father used to take him to as a kid. The brick walls were cracked, the paint faded, the rusted engine still visible through the dusty glass. It smelled like oil and ghosts.

A bottle of whiskey sat beside him o