The room was quiet, filled only with the soft murmur of the wind drifting through the open balcony window. She sat there, eyes faraway, gazing out as though searching the horizon for something long lost. Draped across her lap was a faded knight's cloak, its fabric worn from years of touch. Her fingers traced over the edges, lingering on each thread, each fold, as if the cloak itself held pieces of her son, fragments of a presence that time had taken.

In the doorway, Graf stood, his figure cast in shadows. He watched her, his heart heavy with words unsaid, with a grief he could not mold into language. His face remained composed, an enduring mask he had crafted over years of pain, yet his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, betraying the quiet ache within him.

This had become their ritual: her vigil at the window, his silent presence at the door. For almost a decade, they had returned to this scene, bound by loss, unable to step away yet helpless to bring comfort. Graf opened his mouth to speak but faltered, knowing there were no words that could close the distance between them or fill the hollow absence left in their lives.

And so he stood, silent as ever, bearing witness to her mourning, a shared sorrow hanging in the room like a shadow that would never quite leave.