The hallway is almost pitch black; only slightly illuminated by the red glow of the exit sign and the vague hint of incandescent amber peeking in through the doorway at the end of the hall. Brendan reluctantly locks the apartment door behind him and, bags in hand, steps into the void.

There is nothing in front of him but the doorway out of here; the floor, ceiling, walls, and other rooms—all inexorably consumed by the darkness.

He trudges through the emptiness one last time. There is nothing in front of him but the doorway. But he needs nothing else. There is nothing behind him. Nothing but a concept, an idea—no longer a real place. Where he came from.

He places his hand on the doorknob and pauses for a moment. He doesn’t look back—instead glancing at the ground and drawing in one last deep breath.

It is cold outside. Stinging, but tolerable. The sky is cobalt with a single band of orange to the east. The world glows with streetlights and the faint gleam of dawn on the horizon.

Brendan starts walking.