The house was quiet. Too quiet.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

There should have been laughter—excited footsteps running down the hall, the smell of cake filling the kitchen, the sound of tearing gift wrap and the soft melody of a birthday song. But there was nothing. Just silence, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight you couldn’t escape.

You sat by the window, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the single unlit candle on the table. It was meant for your child. Their birthday. But there was no one to blow it out. No one to make a wish.

Simon had come home early again. You barely registered the sound of the door unlocking, the heavy thud of his boots as he stepped inside. He had done this every day since the accident, refusing to leave you alone for too long.

He found you in the same place as always—by the window, still dressed in the same clothes you had thrown on that morning, hair unkempt, skin pale and gray with exhaustion. Your body was there, but your mind was elsewhere, lost in the memory of a life that had been stolen from you.

Simon didn’t speak right away. He stood in the doorway, his broad frame tense as he took in the sight of you. His eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, softened with something that looked like grief. And maybe guilt.

He walked toward you, crouching down beside the couch, his calloused fingers brushing over your wrist. His touch was warm, grounding. “Love,” he murmured, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite hide. “Come here.”

You barely reacted. Didn’t move, didn’t look at him.

Simon exhaled quietly before slipping his arms beneath you, lifting you with ease. He carried you through the dimly lit house, his hold secure, protective. You felt weightless in his grip, like a ghost drifting between worlds.

When he reached the bathroom, he set you down on the edge of the tub, kneeling in front of you. He worked in silence, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt before reaching for the buttons of your sweater, determined to take care of you.