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That evening, as I prepared dinner, he came home later than usual, his face drawn and tired. The scratch on his chest had faded, but the tension in his posture hadn’t.
We ate in silence, the clatter of cutlery the only sound in the room. I watched him, trying to read the lines etched on his face, searching for clues in the way he held himself.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” I said softly, breaking the quiet.
He looked up, his eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before dropping to his plate. “I know,” he said, a sigh escaping his lips.
“Then why don’t you?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
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His fork paused mid-air, a tremor in his hand betraying the calm he was trying to project.
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