He stopped inviting people over. The few who visited said the house smelled like damp wood and grief. He unplugged the doorbell after one night when it rang once, sharply, at 3 a.m. He didn’t open the door. He didn’t need to. He knew it was either his brain or some pranksters—he couldn’t blame them. He had played such jokes not long ago.
By autumn, the world had moved on. Newsfeeds were filled with newer tragedies and fresh scandals. His face disappeared from the headlines. The silence should have felt like peace, but it didn’t. Oblivion was quieter than hatred, and infinitely colder. He had no one, and his life held no meaning.