Chương 7: Gray sky

Lloyde opened his eyes. Outside hung a heavy, grey sky — the kind that gives neither rain nor sun, just pressing down from above like a wet cloth. That kind of sky promises nothing — no storm, no break in the clouds, it simply exists, indifferent and dense, like the ceiling of an old hospital. The light in the room was dim and diffused, it didn't fall — it simply was present, barely touching the corners and surfaces. There were no shadows.

Only a grey half-light, from which it was impossible to guess the time of day. Lloyde lay motionless for several seconds, staring at the ceiling. There was an old water stain on it from a leak — he knew it by heart, had long since stopped noticing it, but now his gaze caught on it by itself. His brain was slowly returning to his body, like water being poured into a vessel. First thing — the phone. His hand reached for it on its own, before any thought. The screen flashed with cold light. 14: 02"What the hell."

He looked at the numbers again. They hadn't changed.

"Eighteen hours. Did I actually die or something?" Lloyde slowly sat up. His head held that particular, cotton-stuffed silence that comes after sleeping too long — not rested, but wrung dry. The room smelled of sleep — warm, slightly stuffy, with that stale note that appears when the window hasn't been opened in several days.

He rubbed his face with his palms, chasing away the last remnants of darkness, got up and shuffled off to do what people are supposed to do in the morning — even if that morning had arrived at two in the afternoon. After everything was done, he and Roza sat together at the kitchen table. The kitchen smelled of food — something simple and homely, without pretension. The window here was larger than in Lloyde's room, and the grey light from outside lay across the tabletop in an even, colourless strip.

Roza sat opposite him, holding her phone with both hands, head slightly tilted — her thumbs moving across the screen with that mechanical speed that says one thing: the person isn't here, only the body is. Lloyde ate in silence, watching her from the corner of his eye. — You came home from school pretty early today. Roza didn't look up. — Oh, yeah, they cancelled a class, so here I am. — What about your friends? — he tilted his head slightly. — Usually you talk to them until evening.

She glanced away from the screen for a fraction of a second — looked at him, briefly, almost imperceptibly — then went straight back to her phone. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. — The weather today isn't really for talking. — Is that so, — Lloyde said evenly. He looked back at his plate, but something had already caught inside him and wouldn't let go. It wasn't that she'd come home earlier — that happened sometimes, even if rarely.

It was that moment when she'd actually looked at him. Something had flickered in her eyes that she clearly hadn't meant to show. Not fear, no. Something quieter. Something like a tiredness that someone her age shouldn't have.

"Did I imagine it? Or did something actually happen to her?" Lloyde finished eating. Roza did too — barely glancing at her food, on autopilot. He stood up, gathered the plates and started washing the dishes, staring out the window at the grey street.

"Either way — she won't tell me. Not me." The water ran, the plates clinked, Roza went to her room. Everything was as usual. Lloyde was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling with nothing particular on his mind, when his phone gave a short buzz. A message from his dad.

"Hey son. Could you grab some milk? I'll be late today, might not make it in time." Lloyde sent a thumbs up and put the phone down on his chest.

"Alright. Good excuse for a walk anyway." He got up, rummaged through his wardrobe and pulled on his orange hoodie — plain, slightly worn from washing, loved for exactly that reason. Black trousers, and most importantly — his red trainers, which he always laced up a little longer than necessary, simply because he liked things done properly. He stepped out into the hallway and called in the direction of Roza's room: — I'm going to the shop. Back soon. Silence. Then: — Okay. Lloyde closed the door behind him.

Outside it was cold — not the sharp, bitter cold of winter, but the damp, creeping cold of autumn, when the air feels soaked through and finds its way under your clothes before you've had a chance to button up. It was that particular kind of cold that doesn't hit you all at once — it seeps in gradually, works through the fabric, wraps around your wrists, slips behind your collar.

A minute after stepping out of the building, Lloyde could already feel it on his cheeks — a faint, almost unpleasant sting, as if his skin was only just remembering that it was October outside. The sky above the rooftops sat low and solid, without a single break — no patch of blue, no white edge, nothing. Just a grey mass, uniform and endless, like plaster. The trees along the road stood nearly bare — here and there a few last leaves still clung on, dark yellow, curled at the edges, condemned.

The wind pulled them off one by one and carried them along the pavement, rustling across the asphalt with that dry, weary sound that somehow always carries a note of sadness. The asphalt was dark — not from rain, simply from the moisture in the air that settled on everything and made the world a little heavier, a little darker, a little more real. Puddles sat in the potholes at the edge of the road, matte and still, without reflections — the sky didn't reflect in them, because the sky was already everywhere.

There weren't many people on the street. The occasional passerby moved quickly, heads drawn into their shoulders, eyes down, each locked in their own route, their own hurry, their own silence. On days like this the city seemed to shed everything unnecessary — no open cafes, no idle voices, just footsteps, the rustle of leaves, and somewhere far off, the quiet hum of a car turning a corner. Lloyde walked differently. Unhurried, hands in pockets, gaze slightly downward.

His red trainers met the pavement in an even rhythm. He wasn't thinking about anything in particular — just walking, breathing the damp air, listening to the city. Sometimes that was enough.

"At least I don't have to think about the milk." He turned the corner and headed toward the shop.