Lately Lily’s voice on the phone had sounded different—small, weary, overly cautious. As though she were rehearsing courage before she had even learned how to be fully a child.
Ethan didn’t wait for the driver. He didn’t bother with an umbrella. He shoved the car door open and let it bang shut. The only thought hammering through him was Lily—his four-year-old with enormous hazel eyes and wild curls that refused to behave.
The same girl who used to sprint down the hallway at bedtime clutching her plush rabbit, giggling as though the universe itself was kind. Now she asked, “Daddy, can you stay on the phone till I fall asleep?” And when he said he had to go, she answered softly, “Okay,” the way someone does when they already know you’ll vanish anyway.
Rain drenched Ethan’s tailored coat in moments. Water streamed down his face, but guilt burns hotter than any storm, and he had been carrying guilt like extra luggage for months.
The front door accepted his code with a polite click. The house immediately muffled the rain, replacing it with a hush so thick it felt deliberate, as though the walls were listening.
Ethan paused in the foyer. Silence can be comforting. This silence was watchful.