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The keys were heavy in his hand. Car keys. House keys. Small, cold pieces of brass and steel. He stood on the landing. The landing was worn wood. Three flights up.

It was late. The light from the Outside bulb was yellow and weak. He put the keys in the lock. The tumblers shifted. A sharp, mechanical sound. He pushed the door open.

Inside, the air was quiet. It smelled of dust and old wood and a faint, thin smell of soup he had not finished cooking. The room was dark.

He did not turn on the light. He walked into the dark. He put the keys on the small table by the door. The sound they made was small. Final.

He stood there. In the quiet. There was no one else in the room. There was no one coming. The last bus had passed. He could hear its low rumble fade in the street below.

There was a bill on the counter. White paper. He could see its faint outline. It had to be paid. There was food in the refrigerator. He had bought it. He had cooked it. It was his food. His refrigerator. His quiet.

It was not a great moment. No sudden insight. No flourish. Only the simple, deep weight of the room. The absolute silence. Everything here was his responsibility. Everything.

He put his hand against the wall. Plaster. Cold. He breathed in. He breathed out. The feeling was not pride. It was a kind of steady coldness. A simple fact. The door was locked. He was inside. Alone. And that was all. It was the way it was.