Water drips into his hair, streaking his glasses and soaking through his shirt. He does not care. Maybe the rain will rinse him clean. Maybe it will wash him away. Henry reaches his building, but can’t bring himself to climb the six steps to the door, the twenty-four more to his apartment, that belongs to a past where he had a future, so he sinks onto the stoop, leans back, and looks up at the place where the rooftop meets the sky, and wonders how many steps it takes to reach the edge. Forces himself to stop, press his palms against his eyes, and tell himself it is just a storm. Batten down
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