Nothing relaxes the nerves like a cold, hard drink after a long day. The crisp crack of the bottle opening. The soft hiss of the fizz. At least, that's what James believed—and today had been just that: a long, hard day. Then again, every day felt long and hard since his wife passed. Each one stretched on endlessly, steeped in pain and quiet misery. Yet, he had promised her he would keep living.

A promise he regretted.

James slammed the fridge shut, an unopened beer in his hand. The movement rattled the few contents on the shelves. Closing the door revealed his old dog sitting there, staring up at him expectantly.

"What?" James grumbled. "Don't give me that look. I know what she'd say."

Catherine had never liked him drinking. He had cut back for her sake, but now? Now it didn't matter. Guilt churned in his gut, but that would fade after a few drinks—or so he told himself.

This was the routine: come home, kick off the boots, crack open a beer, and collapse on the couch. Most nights, he fell asleep in front of the TV, the flickering glow painting shadows on the walls as shows he didn't care about played in the background.

Outside, thunder rumbled low and deep, rolling across the city. His old dog flinched at the sound.

"Rain again?" James muttered, glancing at the window. He patted the couch beside him. "Come on, Bud. Get up here."

Buddy, his ever-loyal companion, slowly climbed onto the couch, his age showing in every deliberate move. The dog's name had been Catherine's idea. "Buddy suits him," she'd said, her voice still clear in James's memory. Even now, saying the name brought a dull ache to his chest.

Finishing his beer, James wandered to the kitchen, scratching the stubble on his chin. He made himself a sandwich—a simple one, like always. Ham, cheese, and just a smear of mayo. The good stuff, not the cheap kind that tasted like sweetened paste.

James cut the sandwich in half, setting one piece on a plate for Buddy. It was a nightly tradition, one he hadn't missed since Catherine passed.

"Here you go, Bud," he said, placing the plate on the floor. The old dog wagged his tail as he took the offering, his joy small but genuine.

James paused on his way back to the living room, his eyes lingering on a picture frame hanging in the kitchen.

"James" was spelled out in blocky, carved letters at the top; "Catherine" across the bottom in flowing script. A wooden heart connected their names, and inside the heart was a photo of the two of them on their honeymoon. She was laughing, her hair wild in the wind, while James, younger and slimmer, tried to hold a hat on his head.

He stared at the picture for a moment longer, then turned away, swallowing down the lump forming in his throat. He loved to think about Catherine. Sometimes, he would get lost in his own memories. Memories of all the time they spent together. Never bad ones either. Sure, they had their occasional fight but who doesn't.

He looked around the living room again before making his way back to the couch. The walls adorn with pictures and decorations, all of which had been picked out and placed by his late wife. The beige walls stuck out the most to him. James hated the color, but Catherine loved it. He often would think about the day they, or more appropriately, she picked out the color.

James was not one to often say no to his wife. He only ever wanted her to be happy. He really didn't care what color the walls were.

James' thoughts drifted off to his memory of the two of them painting the room. He could still see her, on the step ladder, paint brush in hand, smiling as she applied the color to the walls. Her smile. He always thought about that smile that could light up the room. His heart ached. He lowered his head and continued back to the couch.

Back on the couch, James ate his half of the sandwich and cracked open a second beer. By the time he finished the third, he had drifted off, head tilted back, one hand resting on Buddy's fur. The TV played on, rain pounding against the windows in a relentless rhythm.

The sleep he got was generally poor, frequently tossing and turning. Mixtures of nightmares and memories plagued his dreams. Tonight was no different.

James woke with a start, his heart racing. He blinked groggily, his mind scrambling to orient itself. Did a nightmare wake him? No—the vibration in his pocket told him otherwise.

Grumbling, he fished out his phone. The screen glowed dimly, displaying a single word: WORK.

"Oh, this better be good," James muttered, answering the call.

"Detective Nolan?" a sharp female voice asked on the other end.

"Who else would answer Detective Nolan's phone?" James replied, his annoyance cutting through the sleep in his voice.

"Glad to hear you're in a good mood," the woman shot back. "Sorry to call so late, but we've got a hot one. Just came in."

James sighed, leaning forward and rubbing his temples. "Where?"

"A warehouse down at the docks," she said. "Sending you the location now. Officers are already on-site."

"Yeah, great," James said, ending the call with a tap. He slid the phone back into his pocket and glanced at Buddy. "Looks like I've got an all-nighter, old man."

He stood, and staggered a bit. Bringing a hand to his head, a dull ache had formed. He closed his eyes for a moment. His thoughts racing. In visions, he saw flashing lights and symbols. Almost like they were from a dream. He shook his head and opened his eyes. Just a bad dream, he thought.

James headed to the kitchen. From a high cupboard, he pulled down a battered flask. He gave it a look over. He got the flask shortly after Catherine's death. In the few short years he'd had it, he had put it to use. The once shiny silver now dull around the edges. A few dints here and there from dropping it a couple times. In the middle, however, was still a vibrant depiction of a Phoenix. The red and orange of the bird almost seemed to glow against the silver of the base. It's wings stretching up to its head.

James did like the look of his trusty flask, but only really bought it because it was on sale. The liquor store he found it in was going out of business. It happened to be the last flask they had, and the price was heavily reduced. James didn't like blowing money. He figured it was a sign and got it.

Flask in hand, he reached for the freezer door. Inside yielded a half-empty bottle of whiskey, which he used to fill the flask to the brim.

"For the road," he said, glancing at Buddy. The dog watched him with knowing eyes.

"What? Gotta stay sharp somehow." the dull ache in his head persisting. Taking a moment to think about it, he decided to take a quick drink straight from the bottle. Putting the whiskey back in the freezer, he closed his eyes again and rubbed his head. Feeling the whiskey burn down his throat and warm his stomach. Opening his eyes again, he shut the freezer and turned again for the living room and the front door.

At the front door, James slipped on his boots and shrugged into his jacket. Tucking his flask safely into an interior pocket of the jacket.

He looked over to his old empty belt holster sitting on the small table near the door. He kept his gun in his car, but didn't always wear the holster. In the years he'd been on the force, he'd almost developed a sense for when he might be in danger. The thoughts of what he already knew danced in his mind. Late night, storm, warehouse by the docks. A tingle went up his spine. Slowly, he grabbed the holster from the table and secured it around his waist.

When he finally opened the front door, the true intensity of the storm out side presented itself. Cold and unforgiving, the rain hammered the ground outside. Lightning struck in the distance and thunder boomed.

"Hell of a night for this," he muttered, snatching his keys from the hook by the door. He turned back to Buddy, who was watching him from the couch.

"Look after the place," James said, stepping into the storm and closing the door behind him.