I waited for him.
I made coffee for the two of us, the steam rubbing against my face. He would come tired, weary, sad, and lonely. And he would enter the door without knocking, he wouldn't say hello, wouldn't smile, but drink the coffee. On the first week, he didn't talk at all. All he did was drink some beverage that was on the table, stare at some emptiness in the room, and leave at around midnight perhaps to his own home. All the while, I observed him, trying to interpret his emotions through his movements like the TV told me to do long time ago. But I didn't have a clue, so I just stared at him, intrigued.
He didn't have to tell me who's body it was that fell. The newspaper did it's talking for him, filling in the gruesome details and backstory about who the man was, but nothing about this stranger sitting in my room. A normal business man fed up with life leaving this poor broken man in front of me. Maybe this stranger's ghost was wrecking this man's body to reunite with the dead man in hell. I hoped not.
A week past, he slowly came back into this world. His hands came first, moving more frequently than usually, lifting and placing the cup on the table instead of just holding it in his hand. His eyes came next. There was more light in it than before, life in it. Then the words opened up. What was his name? Adam. He didn't say anything more than that. Just Adam. I told him mine as well, Brie I said. Just Brie. He nodded. And sipped on his coffee.
His voice was deeper than I thought.