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The door creaks, and the rooftop suddenly feels terribly small, exposed and stifling. Footsteps echo off the few walls and a presence appears before him, an achingly familiar boot nudging his own as it slides to sit beside him, worn soles scraping against the concrete.
Dennis doesn't look up. Maybe if he stays here, in the empty corner of the universe that exists between his chest and his knees, the presence will eventually disappear and leave him here to wallow. There's no point in saying anything anyway. He can't deny his sorrow. His grief is so vast, so palpable, that he's sure one could smell it, taste it in the stale stairway air that he left trailing behind him.
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