A gruff man

“Oh, it’s you.” Mr. Kowalski said. There was a fresh cigarette hanging from his lips. “Come on in then.” He mumbled as he lit it. Nate followed the old man down the dank hall, through the spine of the house. It was poorly lit and dusty, not very well kept. On the walls Nate saw photos of planes and vehicles and men in uniform. Mr. Kowalski was a war veteran. Although he was never diagnosed with PTSD, he was usually on edge, antisocial, stayed inside most of the time. This only softened in the past few years as he just didn’t have the energy to worry as much anymore. He was getting slow, too forgetful to overthink everything, and he wasn’t even that old. He didn’t seem particularly happy to have company, even though he probably needed the help and wouldn’t be asking if that wasn’t the case.