The door shut behind Yuri with a soft click.
Silence pressed in immediately.
He didn't turn on the lights.
He set his bag down carefully, as if the apartment might punish him for being careless. The space was small, bare, untouched by warmth.
He breathed in.
Held it.
Let it out.
Then he knelt beside his bed and reached underneath.
The wooden box scraped softly against the floor as he pulled it free. Old. Worn. Familiar.
Inside lay the mask.
White. Featureless. A black cross splitting it cleanly down the center—one side untouched, the other swallowed by darkness.
Yuri stared at it.
He didn't touch it.
Three years.
Three years since the world stopped making sense. Since love became something fragile and temporary. Since survival became a skill instead of a given.
He closed the box.
Pushed it back under the bed.
Tonight, at least, the mask stayed hidden