KROSS

The warehouse was on the edge of the 19th arrondissement, condemned, stinking of piss and old chemicals. It smelled like rust, piss, and old blood. I walked in at 02:14 a.m. wearing the same black coat I’d worn the night I hit Sade with my car.

Honestly, I didn't know why I chose to wear that jacket, or why I was doing this, or why I even felt like Sade was mine when she clearly wasn't.

I stopped asking why long ago, and just went where the wind took me.

I didn’t feel the cold ...