Kings Cross, Sydney — September 5th, 2008.
Night—around 1 A.M.
He walked around the streets of Kings Cross. No music or destination, but the hum of the city that never fully slept. The streetlights glowed pale on the wet pavement, and Danny's boots echoed in uneven rhythm.
There was no rush, no panic. Just something in his chest. Just pressure, like his ribs were too tight around something restless.
He passed shattered shops and lonely taxis, flickering pub signs and overflowing bins. Sydney was always alive, even when it pretended to be asleep.
He lit a cigarette. The smoke helped him every time.
He had no idea where he was heading. He rarely did. The nights weren't for plans—they were for becoming someone else or something else.
Not that man from the morning. The quiet one, the one who flicked when people raised their voice. The one who smiled too fast and apologized before the mistake even happened.
That man was a ghost. A shadow stretched thin across family photos and polite routines.
He fought about it often—the weight men carry. The silence they hold. No one taught you how to bleed without staining the carpet. You're just expected to clean it up before morning
He passed a bar where a group of men laughed too loudly. He didn't join them. But he understood them.
Every joke was just an armour. Every pint, every laughter was a way to say: I am fine, even if the bottle said otherwise.
He took another drag and noticed his hand again—same bruise from the other night. The skin around it was yellowing now, healing . He hadn't thrown any punches had he?
No, he doesn't think so. But the ache felt earned. And somehow…grounding. He stopped at a crossing.
Across the road stood a man holding a paper bag, shoulders slouched, waiting for the light to change. His face was hollow. Not tired, but emptied. Like he'd given too much away to too many people.
Danny stared. The man looked familiar. Then the light turned green, and he walked away. Danny didn't cross.
He turned down a smaller alley, away from light and noise.
He leaned against the brick wall and slid down until he was sitting in the cold ground.
His phone buzzed. A message from that same number: Claire.
"We should talk after your appointment tomorrow. I'm worried."
He read it twice and deleted it. He didn't try to call her.
For a moment, he closed his eyes and just listened—to the hum of electricity in the wires, the wind against glass, the city was alive in its own way. And he wondered.
If a man disappears into himself but never tells anyone—did he ever really exist?
Winston Hills, Sydney — September 5th, 2008.
Morning, 7:35 AM
Daniel stood in front of the mirror longer than usual that morning. The tie was wrong. He loosened it, tightened it again. Still wrong.
His reflection stared back blankly—not tired, just uncertain. His eyes had a glassiness to them, like they weren't sure whether to stay open or close for good.
Downstairs, Claire was packing Ethan's lunchbox. The clink of spoons, the rustle of sandwich wraps. Domestic sound that used to feel comforting now sat strangely in his ears—like distant waves echoing in a sealed room.
He walked down slowly.
"Morning," Claire said.
"Morning," he replied. His voice was dry.
"You're up early today."
"Yeah. Though I'd get ahead of traffic."
She paused. "You didn't hear anything weird last night, did you?"
He looked at her, confused. "Like what?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. Maybe I was dreaming."
He sat at the table. The toast was warm and the coffee was hot. He lifted the mug but didn't drink. His hands felt disconnected from the rest of him. Like he was wearing someone else's body.
Ethan ran into the room, shoes untied, hair a mess.
"Dad, dad, can you help me with my laces?"
Daniel nodded and knelt down. As he tied the shoes, he noticed a scratch on his own wrist, long and thin. It already healed a bit.
"Where'd that come from?" he muttered.
"What?" Ethan asked.
"Nothing."
He smiled, ruffled the boy's hair.
"Don't forget you've got that thing at school," Claire said.
"What thing?"
She frowned. "You said you'd come. The parent session. Remember?"
Daniel blinked. "Right. Yeah. I'll be there."
But he didn't remember. He didn't remember a lot lately. Like memory had holes in it. He lived on the edge doing the right things—job, chores, check-ins—and yet somehow always feeling off balance, like standing on a floor that wasn't quite level.
Later that morning, while commuting, he watched the world pass by through the train window. Same streets, same people. All of them walking, faces blank, moving like clockwork.
He wondered how many were just like him—performed life like a routine, not living it.
What did being a man even mean anymore? It wasn't strength, not really. That was just branding.
It was endurance, quietness, holding up the roof while others forgot you were part of the foundation.
He looked down at his shoes. They didn't match his suit. He stared at them for a long time.
Then he pulled out his phone, opened his calendar, scrolled to the day's meetings.
Blank. Not a single entry. He didn't remember clearing it. He didn't remember booking anything either.
He sat back in his seat. A question rising slowly like nausea.
Who lived in the hours he couldn't account for?