The habit of smoking before he went to bed became a ritual, and he found himself sat out at the end of the garden each night with a cigarette, wrapped in a huge fur lined coat he had found in a vintage store for next to nothing and a trapper hat he had borrowed from his brother, jeans tucked loosely in to the open tops of his tattered boots. One night the sky was so clear that he could see all the stars he had missed, living tucked away in the fog of the big city he had been so desperate to be part of. On another it was raining so he took out the biggest umbrella he could find in the house and sat on newspaper against the wall, tipping the canvas back every so often to look up at the sky and feel the cold of the droplets on his face. He stood out for a moment when he was finished, absorbed in the music pulsing from his headphones, kept his head tilted back and his eyes closed. Later he lay in bed and listened to the whispers of the house around him, heard floorboards creak and imagined stories to partner the ghosts in his head.