The door to Javed’s small Queens apartment stood open, framed by the dim hallway light. Water dripped steadily from the hem of David’s damp jacket onto the scuffed floorboards.
For nearly a minute, neither of them moved. The only sound was the distant rumble of the subway line and the rhythmic patter of rain against the windowpane.
Javed swallowed, his throat feeling dry as ash. He gripped the door handle until his knuckles turned white. "David..." he breathed, his voice trembling with a mixture of disbelief and sheer, overwhelming dread. "What are you... why are you here?"
David didn't answer immediately. He looked past Javed into the tiny, cluttered living room—the peeling wallpaper, the small worn sofa, the mug of cold tea sitting on the coffee table. The stark contrast between this
