He's standing with his back to the room, facing a window that gives nothing back. Somewhere behind him, an old record is still spinning the only warmth left in the space. His face is gone, replaced by flowers, like something grew there the moment he stopped needing to perform for anyone.

This isn't a piece about sadness. It's about that specific, quiet second when a song reaches back and pulls something loose in you a memory, a version of yourself you hadn't thought about in years. The room doesn't rush him. Neither should we.