The rain came down in a steady, soaking sheet, drumming against the cracked sidewalks and pooling in the gutters. David pulled his collar up against it, more out of habit than hope. His shoes were already wet. His hair was dripping into his eyes. The world had shrunk to a few miserable steps ahead of him.
He hated therapy.
Always had.
Waste of time. Waste of money.
He was only here because this guy was offering free sessions — pro bono, the ad had said — and lately the numbers in David’s bank account made the decision for him.
He found the building, an anonymous little brick box wedged between a shuttered laundromat and a payday loan office. Inside, the air was warm and dry, scented faintly with old books and fresh coffee.
Not a bad start.
David pushed through to the waiting area — if you could call two chairs and a small table a waiting area — and barely had time to shake the water off his jacket before a door opened.
"David?"
The man was maybe in his late forties, lean, neat, a clipped beard, plain clothes.
Nothing flashy. Nothing fake.
Just steady gray eyes and a small, easy smile.
"I'm Dr. Robert Mathers," he said. "Good to meet you. Come on in."
David followed him into the office, still dripping slightly. It was small but clean — dark wood desk, two armchairs, a single window showing the blurred gray rain outside. A framed photo on the shelf caught his eye for half a second — a younger Mathers in dusty army fatigues, squinting into the sun — but David was too tired to care much.
They sat.
Mathers didn’t pull out a clipboard. Didn't start scribbling notes.
He just leaned back, hands folded loosely, like they had all the time in the world.
"So," Mathers said, voice low and calm. "You made it through the rain. That's something."
David huffed a half-laugh through his nose. "Didn't feel optional."
Mathers smiled. "Most battles don't."
Something in the phrasing pricked at David, but it was too easy, too natural to argue.
He shrugged instead, crossing his arms.
"Look," David said. "I'm just here because it's free. I'm not expecting a miracle, alright?"
Mathers nodded, unbothered.
"I wouldn't insult you with one," he said. "Miracles are rare. Small victories are enough."
The words landed softer than David expected.
He let himself sink a little deeper into the chair.
They talked — or rather, Mathers let him talk when he wanted to, and filled the gaps with small, sturdy observations when he didn’t. David heard himself saying things he hadn’t planned to say: about the pressure at work, about the mortgage hanging over his head, about Abby’s therapy bills, about the fear gnawing at him when he thought too long about the future.
Mathers listened.
Never rushed. Never judged.
At one point, David caught himself gripping the armrest and forced his hand to relax.
"You’ve been carrying a lot alone," Mathers said quietly. "It wears you down after a while. Makes it hard to tell which battles are worth fighting."
David nodded before he realized he was doing it.
Mathers smiled, not a big smile, just enough.
"You're safe here now, David."
Something loosened in his chest at those words.
He hadn't even noticed how tight he'd been holding everything together.
The session wound down.
As David pulled on his jacket, heavier with water now but lighter somehow on his shoulders, his gaze flickered back to the photo.
"You served?" he asked.
Mathers glanced at it, as if he'd forgotten it was there. "Yeah. Different kind of battlefield. Different kind of work now."
He picked up a folder from his desk and handed it over.
"Paperwork. Just the basics. And don't worry — no charges. I'm taking on a handful of clients pro bono right now. Giving back, you know?"
David nodded, tucking the folder under his arm.
As he reached for the door, Mathers said it again, almost offhandedly:
"You're safe here now, David."
The rain was still falling when he stepped outside.
But somehow, tonight, it didn’t feel cold at all.