The apartment lights were always dim, as if they never truly wanted to be bright.
A father lived there with his only daughter. It had been a long time since his wife left—not because she died, but because she chose a different path in life. Since then, the apartment on the twenty-seventh floor had felt larger, colder, and quieter than it should have been.
The man was not someone who spoke much. Even before the separation, his words had always been short, firm, and without emotion. Now, all that remained was a heavy silence.
He never mentioned his ex-wife’s name, but his resentment was clear—especially toward one thing: writing.
To him, writing was the reason all of this happened.
—
That night, the clock showed a little past eight when the apartment door opened quietly.
His daughter had returned from her lesson.
Her steps were calm and steady. She closed the door, hung up her bag, then walked through the dim living room without rushing.
Her father was already there.
Sitting upright on the sofa, with a table lamp lit beside him. No television. No sound. Just silence that felt like pressure in the chest.
His gaze immediately fell on her.
Cold.
Not angry. Not disappointed. More like… empty, but sharp.
“Where have you been?” he asked briefly.
There was no concern in his voice. Just formality.
The girl stopped a few steps away from the sofa. Her posture remained straight. Her gaze steady, not avoiding his. She answered briefly—clear and to the point.
The man didn’t repeat the question.
He simply waited.
Silence filled the room again.
Then, he slid something across the table.
A notebook.
A plain-covered notebook. Its corners slightly bent, as if it had been opened in secret many times.
It was hers.
“What is this?”
His tone remained flat. Neither raised nor lowered.
The girl didn’t move.
She didn’t step closer. Didn’t defend herself. She only stood there calmly, glancing at the notebook for a moment before looking back at him.
The man opened it slowly.
Handwriting filled nearly every page. Neat. Long. Intentional.
Stories.
He read a few lines in silence. His expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
He closed the notebook.
“I told you,” he said, “don’t be like her.”
There was no emotion. Just a decision.
The girl didn’t look down.
Her expression stayed blank. No regret, no defiance.
The man stood.
His steps were heavy but controlled. He walked closer, stopping right in front of her.
The distance between them was only one step, but it felt like two different worlds.
“Throw this away,” he said, pushing the notebook toward her.
She took it without hesitation.
Her grip was steady.
She didn’t look at it. Didn’t argue.
Just accepted it.
The man stared at her for a few seconds longer.
As if searching for something.
As if expecting to find a crack—emotion, resistance, or a reason.
But there was none.
What he saw was a calmness too similar to his own.
He turned away.
“Focus on school,” he said shortly, before walking off to his room.
The door closed.
And the apartment fell silent again.
—
In the living room, the girl was still standing.
The notebook still in her hand.
She didn’t throw it away.
Didn’t open it either.
Her gaze briefly shifted to the closed bedroom door, then back to the notebook in her hand.
A few seconds passed.
She walked to the table.
Placed the notebook there.
Not in the trash.
Outside the window, the city lights flickered.
Warm.
In contrast to the coldness of the apartment.
And within the silence, the distance between the two of them remained the same—not closer, not farther.
Just… frozen.