The rain is relentless, a grey curtain blurring the neon signs of the late-night convenience store across the street. He’s hunched on the stoop, collar pulled high, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his fingers. The pavement is slick with water reflecting the flickering light, distorting the world into a fractured, melancholic mess. He’s meticulously folding a crumpled letter, the paper damp and fragile, over and over, as if trying to compress the weight of the words inside. His gaze is fixed on the empty street, but he’s not seeing anything. Just a hollow space where a future used to be. A single, worn backpack leans against the wall beside him, its contents a silent testament to a life abruptly packed away. The air smells of rain, cheap cigarettes, and a lingering, bitter regret.