It turned out that bats can stay alive curled up in small black balls behind the door longer than Vincent would have thought. He didn’t go into that room often anyway, so he couldn’t be sure how long it had been there when the first waft of humidity hit him face-first as he wandered in, looking for something. He saw the black lump covering the hinges and leaned in for a closer look as he was about to leave, quickly retreating when he noticed the distinctive leathery wings and tiny claws. It was easier to just shut the door and walk away. There were no insects in the cold winter air for it to survive on, only the frost seeping in through the concrete walls.

Vincent already had his set routines that didn’t require access to that room. He had his collections of old watches and obscure vermouths to enjoy after dinner as he listened to vinyls on his turntable, the music flowing around him and filling any empty space he may still feel. He had his trips to the city once or twice a week, and there, he would stroll along the impossibly elegant avenues and under the multitude of cables guiding the many trams on their routes. He never bought anything…well, not very often, anyway. And if he did, he wouldn’t even tell his children about when they called from their own far-away homes. He knew they worried about him being alone and spending too much money on things he didn’t need. But otherwise, he thought, what was the point of being alive?

At least a week must have passed before he thought about the bat again. He was making dinner for some friends and had to get the nice napkins from the spare bedroom. It was still in the same place, but if he looked at it long enough, he thought he could see the faint trembling of its tiny body, and he turned the light off and closed the door quickly behind him.

Vincent had always been afraid of bats the way some people are terrified of cars or airplanes. He wondered if the bat knew this, and that was why it had found its way into his life. His friends told him to call an exterminator, but the thought of someone coming into his home with the express purpose of killing another living thing, even one so awful as that, felt wrong. He would rather move, he said. Anyway, it was a good enough roommate as long as the doors were closed and the ground rules were respected. He stayed in there, and Vincent stayed out. Everything was fine.

His friends laughed and said he would have to go to their house for dinner the next time. Another few weeks went by, and the cold of the winter became something he could reach out and touch. He had to go back into that room for the extra blankets, and he opened the door cautiously. The bat was still there, but the luster of its brown fur was gone, and there was no hint of movement, even when he fetched the broom to tentatively brush it.

By then, he had half-expected it to live forever, like a vampire, but after he had dawned a heavy jacket and thick leather gloves to carefully scoop the animal into a bag, he knew he was once again alone. It hadn’t been a pet, but he decided to keep the body close so the memory would keep him company. He buried it in a large flower pot on his balcony. He would plant marigolds there in the spring, he decided. His mother had always loved marigolds.