At work, they call him by name. He nods, shakes hands, laughs at jokes that land like stones in still water. No ripples. No echoes. Just the performance of a man who once felt real.
He is a bell with no clapper. A letter with no address. A flame in a vacuum— still orange, still hungry, but touching nothing. Hollow Man
And in the dark, he whispers to the ceiling: I was here once. Weren’t I? The ceiling says nothing. Because the ceiling, too, is hollow. Would you like a different tone—more poetic, more eerie, or more like a short story? At work, they call him by name