Silent Vigil
I switched off the bedside lamp. Darkness swallowed the room. Lying in cold sheets, eyes open to the invisible ceiling. No tears. Just vast emptiness and fatigue. Darkness sharpened my senses. Next door, his bedroom door clicked open softly. Then, slow, heavy footsteps. Not towards the kitchen. Pausing… outside my door. Silence. Only the rain’s roar. My heart stopped.
He was out there? What did he want? Time stretched. No knock. No retreating steps. Just… waiting? Minutes dragged. Just as I dismissed it as imagination… A stifled, ragged inhale. An injured animal licking wounds in the dark. Then, another soft click. The lock reseated. Footsteps retreated, heavy and slow, back to his room. His door closed with a thud. I lay rigid. Something cold touched my cheek. My finger found it. Wet.
The Road Ahead
Morning. Rain stopped. Coffee filled the kitchen. James stood at the counter, pouring warm milk into Amy’s bear cup. Hair messy, clothes rumpled. Amy swung her legs on her little chair. "Daddy, my bear milk ready?" "Almost, sweetheart." His voice was raw, nasal. He turned, cup in hand. I sat at the table, black coffee steaming before me. Our eyes met. Briefly. His eyes were crimson, hollowed with exhaustion. He flinched, looked down quickly, set the cup before Amy. "Careful, hot." Amy cheered, sipping, leaving a milk mustache. He parted his lips.
Stopped. Said nothing. Sunlight slanted in, catching one of Amy’s drawings on the table. Three stick figures holding hands. Scrawled beside them: Daddy, Mommy, Amy. He saw it. His gaze locked onto those simple lines, straining for comprehension. A tremor passed through his shoulders. Then, slowly, stiffly, he pulled out a chair. Sat opposite me. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at Amy. Just stared down, hands clenched tight around his empty coffee mug, knuckles whitening. As if that cold porcelain was his sole anchor. The only sound: Amy’s soft sips. The day stretched long ahead.
I switched off the bedside lamp. Darkness swallowed the room. Lying in cold sheets, eyes open to the invisible ceiling. No tears. Just vast emptiness and fatigue. Darkness sharpened my senses. Next door, his bedroom door clicked open softly. Then, slow, heavy footsteps. Not towards the kitchen. Pausing… outside my door. Silence. Only the rain’s roar. My heart stopped.
He was out there? What did he want? Time stretched. No knock. No retreating steps. Just… waiting? Minutes dragged. Just as I dismissed it as imagination… A stifled, ragged inhale. An injured animal licking wounds in the dark. Then, another soft click. The lock reseated. Footsteps retreated, heavy and slow, back to his room. His door closed with a thud. I lay rigid. Something cold touched my cheek. My finger found it. Wet.
The Road Ahead
Morning. Rain stopped. Coffee filled the kitchen. James stood at the counter, pouring warm milk into Amy’s bear cup. Hair messy, clothes rumpled. Amy swung her legs on her little chair. "Daddy, my bear milk ready?" "Almost, sweetheart." His voice was raw, nasal. He turned, cup in hand. I sat at the table, black coffee steaming before me. Our eyes met. Briefly. His eyes were crimson, hollowed with exhaustion. He flinched, looked down quickly, set the cup before Amy. "Careful, hot." Amy cheered, sipping, leaving a milk mustache. He parted his lips.
Stopped. Said nothing. Sunlight slanted in, catching one of Amy’s drawings on the table. Three stick figures holding hands. Scrawled beside them: Daddy, Mommy, Amy. He saw it. His gaze locked onto those simple lines, straining for comprehension. A tremor passed through his shoulders. Then, slowly, stiffly, he pulled out a chair. Sat opposite me. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t look at Amy. Just stared down, hands clenched tight around his empty coffee mug, knuckles whitening. As if that cold porcelain was his sole anchor. The only sound: Amy’s soft sips. The day stretched long ahead.
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