An insatiable hunger awoke and gnawed at him. With a heavy arm, he reached for the greasy glass by the bed and knocked off a photograph of them together. The tumbler offered only a spit’s worth of warm water. His constricted throat prevented much more, and he dropped the cup. The craving pulled him inward into the fetal position. He sweated but shivered under the comforter. Cracked plaster on the ceiling pointed in all directions. Veins guided him through the room to where the doorway remained empty. The weight of the air held the silhouette. He brought a hand to his cheek. How long had it been?

Beyond the room’s wall, a bus hissed to rest before chirping and revving away. A phone chimed. Car doors closed. Feet dragged. A child cried. Traffic increased. Tires slowed, stopped, sped up. The sounds stitched together the pattern of days. The spirit within tried to raise his body and join the footsteps on the sidewalk. His bones betrayed him. His anatomy was a leaden costume. Invisible armor that trapped him. He slid a foot to the edge of the bed. There were so many steps to climb to his past self. That barrier was infinite.

He sunk back into the mattress; the springs compressed. The painted dragon by the door was a promise. Clothes on the floor marked the days. The rose cardigan hung from his desk chair. Dust particles danced in the sunlight that persisted through the blinds. The luminescence ignited lightning across his sight. He squeezed his eyes shut. The ringing returned in the silence of mid-morning. A scratching became a tapping. The method of a ghost channeling a message. Scrape, scrape, tap. Something unworldly called. He raised a hand to part the vinyl slats. Outside the splintered window, he saw green buds on the thin branches.