Rain poured in sheets over Frankfurt, the coastal city battered by days of relentless storms that had only now begun to ease.
Bruce sat by the window, its pane slightly ajar. Raindrops seeped through the mesh screen, pooling near his feet as the storm whispered outside.
Campton crept forward quietly, hunched slightly as he draped a woolen blanket over the old man's shoulders.
"Sir, it's chilly here. Perhaps we should move inside?"
The old man remained silent, his gaze fixed beyond the glass. When Campton moved to shut the window, Bruce raised a gnarled hand to stop him.
"Leave it. I want to watch a while longer."
His deeply sunken eyes held a lifetime of storms—wrinkles carved across his face like battle scars, each one telling its own story.
Campton pressed his lips together, yield
