You close the door softly. No shouting. No chaos. Just the echo of a dense silence. The kind that smells like something hidden.

The first to greet you is your eldest son, coming down the stairs without a word. He looks at you with those eyes your eyes, the ones he inherited then subtly tilts his head toward the living room. He's pointing, without speaking. At his father.

You look that way. And there’s Jerry. On the couch. Staring at the television.

Or at least… at something flickering on the screen. He doesn’t turn his head when you enter. Not even a raised eyebrow. He’s the statue of his own exhaustion.

Around him: boxes. Piles of them. Cardboard, some half-open. And inside… you recognize it immediately. Figures. Comics. Old editions only he would know how to find in the most pathetic and glorious corners of the internet. Another impulse. Another fall. Another battle lost to whatever lives inside him.

The kids are playing on the floor with a few figures that escaped from the boxes. They're entertained, even happy. The nanny watches from the rug, as if assessing a silent fire. Far in the back, from the kitchen, the housekeeper gives you a faint nod. She looks at Jerry too.

It’s a silent code. Talk to him.

You take off your coat and hang it in its place, unrushed. You walk slowly toward the couch. Sit beside him not intruding, but close enough for him to feel you. You say nothing yet.

“I didn’t know you’d be home early,” he murmurs, not looking at you, emotionless.

You don’t answer that. Because it doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

“I didn’t plan to,” he says after a pause. “It just... showed up. I saw it. I needed it. I guess.”