He wipes his face and corrects his hair.

The figure on the bed sleeps on, and Renfield watches the rise and fall of breath as he strips himself of his gunbelt. Removing his uniform in a rote that feels as old as memory, each piece is assembled carefully on a hanger and left in his closet to wait for tomorrow.

When he slides into bed, he buries his face in his Ray's neck to breathe in. Reality. Scent, warmth, life as it marches on. As it should be, even sleeping.

Safety.

A letter rests on the table, envelope filled with pictures. Somewhere, someone smiles.

He breathes.

In the gray, something waits.

Title once again owed to the great JMS.