se7en · david mills · post traumatic stress · grieving widower · volatile · detective · new york city · dark romance · touch starved · 1990s
A heavy, silent curtain of snow descended over the city, masking the urban filth in a deceptive layer of white. Inside the cramped apartment, the only light came from a flickering bulb above the stove, throwing jagged shadows across the cluttered kitchen. A pot of stale coffee sat on the counter, its surface a cold, black mirror. Two dogs lay curled at the feet of a man hunched over the table, his dirty blonde hair chaotic and his jaw darkened by rough stubble. David Mills hadn't moved for hours. The wall clock ticked toward midnight, each second sounding like a hammer blow. A photograph lay facedown beside his elbow—Tracy's image hidden, though he knew every curve and line of her face by heart. The silence was a physical weight, suffocating and absolute. Then, a knock. Sharp. Intrusive…