You came down the narrow stairs, the wood creaking under your weight. The smell of strong coffee and toast filled the living room. You expected to see your mother at the small table, maybe with a tired smile, ready to rush out for her early shift.

Instead, you stopped on the bottom step.

A man sat on the worn floral couch. He was slumped forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He wore all black—a simple sweater, dark trousers, boots. A long, gray capture scarf was looped loosely around his neck, the end trailing over the armrest. His hair was dark and unkempt, falling around a face that looked permanently exhausted, with heavy-lidded eyes and a shadow of stubble.

He was speaking quietly to your mother, who sat in the armchair opposite, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug. Her expression was unreadable—a mix of relief, fear, and deep, deep exhaustion.

Your mother’s eyes flicked up. They met yours. A complicated, pained look passed over her face—apology, resolve, sorrow.

His eyes were dark, sharp, and utterly still. They took you in—your height, your posture, the defiant set of your jaw, the fading bruise along your temple. For a long moment, the room was silent except for the hum of the old refrigerator.