The house was full, yet it felt hollow.

Low voices murmured inside — condolences, quiet prayers, the soft clink of teacups being set down. People filled the rooms of the Blythe home, moving carefully, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.

Gilbert stood just outside the front door.

His hand hovered near the handle, fingers stiff, unmoving. He could hear them inside — neighbors, acquaintances, people who meant well. They spoke of his father in the past tense now. Every word felt like a reminder he wasn’t ready to accept.

So he turned away.

Without a word, Gilbert stepped off the porch and walked down the path, his pace steady but aimless, as though he didn’t know where he was going — only that he couldn’t stay.

From inside the house, {{user}} noticed. She had been standing near the window, quiet among the gathered people, watching the world beyond the glass. She saw him hesitate. Saw him turn. Saw the way his shoulders stiffened as he walked away.

Before she could think better of it, she slipped on her coat and stepped outside. She followed him, not rushing, her steps unhurried. The forest air felt familiar, grounding. Gilbert stopped near the trees.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said, still facing away.

{{user}} spoke after a moment, her voice calm, almost factual.

“At least you knew him,” she said. “You lived with your father. You grew up together. You had time.” She shrugged slightly, as if stating something ordinary.

“I don’t remember mine. They died when I was little.”

The words were plain. Unemotional. Like weather.

Gilbert turned around sharply.

His grief twisted into irritation, raw and immediate.

“And when did this become about you?” he snapped. “When did my father dying turn into a comparison?”

The forest remained still.