Story #1 – He kept the boots by the door. Always. Didn’t matter that he never wore them anymore. Didn’t matter that his knees ached like hell when the rain came. They stayed by the door. Sometimes people asked. He’d shrug. “Just habit.” But it wasn’t habit. It was the quiet promise he made a long time ago: “If something happens, I’m ready.” He didn’t tell anyone he still checked every exit in every room. That he parked facing out. That he could hear the sound of metal from two streets over. He didn’t explain why he flinched at fireworks but not at fists. Or why he still carried a coin he found in the dirt that one day. The boots knew. They waited. Every day. And so did he. Until one morning, he stood in front of them. Breathed. Bent down. And moved them to the closet. Not because he forgot. But because, for the first time in years, he realized— no one was coming. And he didn’t have to keep the door open anymore. .

Story #2 – He kept forgetting simple things. Where he put his keys. What day it was. Why he walked into the room. But there were some things he never forgot. The weight of the door in that one compound. The taste of metal when the dust kicked up. The name no one else said out loud anymore. He wasn’t loud. Didn’t go to events. Didn’t wear shirts with slogans. Didn’t sit with his back to the door—ever. People thought he was just quiet. Some thought he was cold. One person said he should “talk to someone.” He didn’t answer. Because he did talk. Just… not with words. He talked by showing up. By fixing the fence without being asked. By watching people’s kids like nothing could touch them while they played. By noticing the guy in the corner of the room who looked like he wanted to disappear. That was his language now: Presence. Not everyone speaks it. But the ones who do… they understood him completely. .